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To  the 
End  of  the 
Universe 


me  Days  of 
Solomon  Gursky 
Ian  McDonald 


VJl'ii 


anf 


PauU.  McAuley 
M.  Shayne  Bell 
James  Patrick  Kelly 


Discover  the  Secrets  of  Fiction  WriUng  that  Setts! 


Making 

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AS51 


Vol.  22  No.  6 (Whole  Number  270)  Next  Issue  on  Sole 

June  1998  June  9,  1998 


88  The  Days  of  Solomon  Gursky Ian  McDonald 


26  Lovestory  

46  The  Moon  Girl 
74  Red 


. James  Patrick  Kelly 

M.  Shayne  Bell 

Sarah  Clemens 


25  Willy  in  the  Nano-Lab Geoffrey  A.  Landis 

44  Checklist  Timons  Esaias 

73  Personal  Cosmology  Dana  Wilde 


64 

Cover  illustration  by 
Jim  Bums 


4 Editorial  Gardner  Dozois 

6 Reflections:  The  Science  Fictionization 

of  Everything Robert  Silverberg 

1 0 You  Can  Get  Everywhere  from  Here: 

Start  James  Patrick  Kelly 

1 3 Meet  Our  Cyberspace  Cadet  Sheila  Williams 

129  On  Books:  The  Edge  of 

the  Envelope  Norman  Spinrad 

1 44  The  SF  Conventional  Calendar  Erwin  S.  Strauss 


Gardner  Dozois:  Editor  Sheila  William’s:  Executive  Editor 

Isaac  Asimov:  Editorial  Director  (1977-1992) 

Peter  Kanter:  Publisher  Christine  Begley:  Associate  Publisher 


14  17 

64  Target  of  Opportunity 


Paul  J.  McAuley 

Stephen  Dedman 


DliPARTME^Ti 


\OVI  I ETTI  S 


\OVEI  I A 


Stories  from  Asimov's 
have  won 
twenty-nine  Hugos 
and  twenty-three 
Nebula  Awards,  and 
our  editors  have 
received  twelve  Hugo 
Awards  for  Best 
Editor. 

Asimov's  was  also  the 
1996  recipient  of  the 
Locus  Award  for  Best 
Magazine. 


Published  monrhty  except  for  a cordDined  October /November  double  issue  by  Dell  Magazines, 
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.,  ■ ^Maebemeenmenofsdmce 

and  creatures  Of  sorcery. 


Author 


Wi/hrlwm 


All  nf  the  above. 


History  mixed  with  fantasy 
3rieids  an  extraordinary 
new  adventure  by  the 
acclaimed  author  of 
. The  Waterborn  and 
V TmBtACKCQD. 


Book 


One 


The 


Age 


Unreason 


|PWu3W^51  frtr  iicwsicllr 


Stories  That  Define  Imagination 
A Division  of  The  Ballantine  Publishing  Croup 


http://www.randomhouse.com/dclrcY/ 


Gardner  Dozois 


Well,  with  this  issue,  changes  have 
once  again  come  to  Asimov’s  Sci- 
ence Fiction  magazine,  but — un- 
like the  death  of  Isaac  Asimov 
and  Baird  Searles  a few  years 
back — these  are  positive  changes, 
changes  that  we’re  enthusiastic 
about  and  that  we  think  will  help  to 
ensure  our  health  and  viability  as  we 
stand  on  the  brink  of  entering  the 
new  century. 

The  first  and  biggest  change — in 
all  meanings  of  the  word! — ought  to 
be  obvious  to  you  already,  presuming 
that  you’ve  picked  up  the  magazine, 
as  you  must  have  in  order  to  be  read- 
ing these  words  in  the  first  place;  Af- 
ter twenty  years  as  a “digest”-sized 
magazine,  we’ve  changed  our  size. 
The  magazine  has  gotten  bigger. 

From  now  on,  every  issue  will  be 
more  than  an  inch  taller  and  a quar- 
ter-inch wider  than  it  used  to  be;  the 
number  of  pages  per  issue  will  go 
down  from  160  to  144  for  regular  is- 
sues, and  from  288  to  240  for  double 
issues,  but — and  it’s  a very  important 
“but” — the  fact  that  the  pages  are 
larger  means  that  we  will  be  able  to 
use  about  10  percent  more  new  mate- 
rial in  each  issue  than  we  used  to  be 
able  to  ...  so  that  from  now  on  our  is- 
sues will  be  larger  than  they  have 
been  in  every  way,  not  only  a larger 
format,  but  more  new  material  per  is- 
sue as  weU! 

With  larger  pages,  we  can  jam 
even  more  high  quality  fiction  and 
nonfiction  into  each  issue  than  was 
previously  possible — and  Asimov’s 
Science  Fiction  is  already  one  of  the 
best  reading  bargains,  more  materi- 
al for  less  money,  that  you  can  find 
an5rwhere  in  the  genre  today  ...  es- 
pecially when  you  consider  the  quali- 


ty of  the  material  we  bring  you,  unri- 
valed anywhere,  good  enough  so  that 
stories  from  Asimov’s  have  won 
twenty-nine  Hugo  Awards  and  twen- 
ty-three Nebula  Awards,  as  well  as 
World  Fantasy  Awards,  Theodore 
Sturgeon  Awards,  and  HOMer 
Awards,  and  Asimov’s  itself  has  won 
the  prestigious  Locus  Award  for  Best 
Magazine  of  the  Year  for  an  unprece- 
dented ten  years  in  a row. 

In  addition  to  being  able  to  bring 
you  more  material  per  issue  for  your 
money,  we’re  enthusiastic  about  this 
change,  because  we  hope  that  the  in- 
crease in  size  will  increase  our  visi- 
bility on  the  newsstands  (where,  at 
the  moment,  digest-sized  titles  tend 
to  get  lost  because  other,  larger  mag- 
azines are  shuffled  in  front  of  them), 
increase  our  attractiveness  as  a 
product  to  distributors  (who  tend  to 
favor  larger-format  magazines  over 
digest-sized  magazines),  and  in  gen- 
eral help  to  prepare  us  to  enter  our 
third  decade  of  life — and  the  new 
century  just  ahead. 

Yes,  that’s  right,  I said  our  third 
decade  of  life,  for  although  it  seems 
like  only  a little  while  ago  that  I 
helped  produce  the  very  first  issue  of 
Asimov’s  Science  Fiction,  it  was  actu- 
ally all  the  way  back  in  1977,  and 
twenty  years  have  passed  since  then! 
So  to  honor  our  Twentieth  Anniver- 
sary, with  an  eye  to  the  future,  we 
are  initiating  anofiier  big  change,  ex- 
perimenting with  a brand-new  me- 
dia. We  are  expanding  into  the  onhne 
world.  With  the  invaluable  help  of 
John  O’Neill  and  Rodger  Turner  from 
SF.SITE,  who’ve  worked  like  mine 
slaves  getting  this  prepared,  we’ve  set 
up  an  Asimov’s  Science  Fiction  Inter- 
net website.  We  can  be  found  at 


4 


Asimov's 


http://www.asimovs.com — or  you 
can  link  to  us  from  www.sfsite.com, 
the  SF.SITE  home  page. 

Next  time  you’re  surfing  the  net, 
check  us  out  at  our  online  home  for 
exciting  story  excerpts  fix)m  upcoming 
issues,  book  reviews,  online  inter- 
views and  chats  with  your  favorite 
writers,  Isaac  Asimov’s  famous  Edito- 
rials, Robert  Silverberg’s  controver- 
sial Reflections,  Norman  Spinrad’s 
acclaimed  critical  essays,  reprints  of 
classic  Asi/nou’s  stories,  cartoons,  puz- 
zles, letters,  and  special  features- — in- 
cluding complete  new  stories — avail- 
able only  online  at  the  website.  You 
can  even  subscribe  to  Asimov’s  in  its 
usual  monthly  print  incarnation  with 
only  the  chck  of  a few  buttons,  and  no 
cut-out  coupons  or  envelopes  or 
stamps  (or  trips  to  the  post-office 
through  the  rain  or  the  snow!)  re- 
quired— with  special  rates  available 
for  online  subscriptions.  You  C£Ui  also 
vote  for  next  year’s  Asimov’s  Readers 
Award  poll  online,  again  with  no 
stamps  or  envelopes,  muss  or  fuss  re- 
quired. So  check  us  out  online — we 
think  you’ll  like  what  you  see! 

And  in  honor  of  our  new  Asimov’s 
Internet  website,  this  issue  features 
the  debut  of  a new  column,  one  that 
will  be  appearing  here  from  time  to 
time,  as  the  intrepid  James  Patrick 
Kelly  sets  out  with  gun  and  cam- 
era— or  with  mouse  Euid  modem,  any- 
way— to  explore  the  vast  jungles  and 
impenetrable  thickets  of  the  Internet 
in  search  of  websites  of  interest  to  SF 
readers,  and  to  generally  keep  an  eye 
out  for  Cool  Things  that  you  can  do 
while  you’re  online.  Kelly’s  column  is 
called  “You  Can  Get  Everywhere 
From  Here,”  and  we  think  you  may 
find  it  useful — and,  more  important- 
ly, enjoy  it! 

So,  that’s  aU  of  our  changes  for  the 
moment.  Look,  the  twenty-first  cen- 
tury looms  ahead!  Brace  yourself  for 
impact!  Ramming  speed!  We’re  going 
to  plunge  right  into  that  thing — all 
guns  blazing!  • 


GARDNER  DOZOIS: 

£dik>r 


SHEILA  WILLIAMS; 

Executiv*  Editof 


JARED  GOLDMAN: 

Editorial  Assistant 


EVIRA  AAATOS: 

Editorial  Assistant 


ViaORIA  GREEN: 

Art  Director 


SHIRLEY  CHAN  LEVI: 

Assistant  Art  Director 


CAROLE  DIXON: 

Production  Manager 

KATHLEEN  HALLIGAN: 

Associate  Manager,  Subsidiory  Rights  and  AAarketing 

LYNDA  MORAN: 

Assistant  Controcts  and  Permissions 


BRUCE  W.  SHERBOW: 

Directed  Newsstand  Sales 


SANDY  MARLOWE: 

Ctreukition  Services 


PETER  KANTER: 

Publisher 


CHRISTINE  BEGLEY: 

Associate  Publisher 


ISAAC  ASIMOV: 

Editorial  Director 


ADVERTISING  REPRESENTATIVE 
David  Geller  Publishers'  Rep.  (212)  682-1540 


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before  submitting  your  story. 


Editorial 


5 


REFLECimS 


by  Robert  Silverberg 


THE  SCIENCE-FICTIONIZATION  OF  EVERYTHING 


For  a few  dazzling  weeks  last 
summer  it  seemed  as  if  science 
fiction  had  engulfed  the  world. 
The  front  page  of  The  New  York 
Times  began  to  look  like  an  outtake 
from  a 1949  issue  of  Thrilling  Won- 
der Stories  or  Astounding  Science 
Fiction.  So  many  fantastic  things 
were  going  on  at  once  that  my  mind 
reeled  with  present  shock. 

Consider  all  this: 

— The  Pathfinder  went  to  Mars, 
and  sent  its  cute  and  nifty  little 
Rover  scuttling  around  biunping  into 
rocks  with  names  like  Barnacle  Bill 
and  Ender,  while  television  cameras 
sent  back  live  pictures  of  the  rugged 
Martian  landscape. 

— Meanwhile,  the  Russian  crew  of 
the  vast,  spidery-looking  Mir  space 
station,  up  there  in  orbit  around  the 
Earth,  was  stumbling  around  from 
one  comic-opera  mishap  to  another. 

— Off  in  ^swell.  New  Mexico,  the 
fiftieth  anniversary  of  the  alleged 
crash  of  an  unidentified  flsdng  object 
with  a crew  of  extra-terrestrials 
aboard  was  celebrated  with  all  man- 
ner of  solemn  and  loony  pronounce- 
ments about  the  significance,  or  lack 
thereof,  of  the  event. 

— A satellite  trailing  the  space 
shuttle  Discovery  came  up  with  evi- 
dence that  supports  a much-disputed 
theory  that  the  Earth’s  atmosphere 
is  constantly  being  bombarded  by 
snowballs  as  big  as  houses. 

— A team  of  scientists  from  the 
University  of  Munich  announced 
that  they  had  succeeded  in  retriev- 
ing and  deciphering  a strip  of  DNA 
from  fossil  Neanderthal  bones,  and 
were  able  to  demonstrate,  by  com- 
paring their  sample  to  modern  hu- 


man DNA,  that  the  Neanderthals 
had  been  a separate  branch  of  the 
human  race,  having  diverged  from 
the  line  of  hominid  evolution  hun- 
dreds of  thousands  of  years  ago. 

— From  various  points  around  the 
country  came  the  news  that  Dolly, 
the  famous  cloned  sheep  whose  exis- 
tence had  been  revealed  early  in 
1997,  had  now  been  joined  by  an  as- 
sortment of  other  cloned  barnyard 
critters,  with  many  more  to  come. 

— A Japanese  electronics  firm 
demonstrated  its  first  walk-around 
robot,  stolidly  clunking  up  and  down 
the  stairs  looking  for  all  the  world 
hke  the  latest  positronic  job  dreamed 
up  by  Isaac  Asimov’s  great  roboticist 
Susan  Calvin. 

— It  began  to  seem  as  though  the 
movie  houses  of  the  nation  were  for- 
bidden to  show  anything  but  science 
fiction  films,  what  with  Men  in 
Black,  Contact,  and  The  Lost  World 
playing  simultaneously. 

All  this,  you  understand,  against  a 
constant  drumbeat  of  Internet  devel- 
opments, promotional  news  about 
the  coming  era  of  digital  television, 
advertisements  for  do-it-yourself  pa- 
ternity testing  with  home  DNA  kits, 
and  other  routine  technological 
razzmatazz,  1990’s-style. 

Well,  so  what,  you  say?  It’s  all  rou- 
tine news,  isn’t  it?  Space  stations 
have  been  orbiting  the  Earth  for  a 
long  time  now,  and  unmanned  land- 
ings on  Mars  were  accomplished 
back  in  the  1970s,  and  there’s  noth- 
ing new  about  science  fiction  films, 
and  if  comets  can  come  our  way,  why 
not  space  snowballs  as  well,  and 
even  cloning  has  been  in  the  develop- 
ment stages  for  a while,  and  in  any 


6 


Asimov's 


case  it’s  all  just  the  latest  science 
stuff,  so  what’s  the  fuss?  Science 
does  keep  marching  on,  you  know. 

Yes.  So  it  does.  And  we  get  a little 
jaded  as  the  procession  of  miracles 
marches  on  and  on. 

But  look  at  it  from  my  point  of 
view,  will  you?  I’m  in  my  sixties  now, 
which  means  I’m  older  than  most  of 
the  readers  of  this  magazine,  and  a 
lot  older  than  some.  I’ve  been  read- 
ing science  fiction  for  more  than  fifty 
years  and  writing  it  professionally 
for  more  than  forty.  I’ve  lived  with 
such  concepts  as  cloning  and  DNA 
analysis  and  space  stations  and  mis- 
sions to  Mars  since  I was  a kid;  and 
they  were  science  fiction  then. 

Now  they  aren’t.  They’re  the  stuff 
of  daily  news,  things  that  too  many 
of  us  take  for  granted.  I can’t.  Espe- 
cially when  such  an  enormous  spate 
of  startling  news — news  that  still 
seems  like  bulletins  out  of  the  future 
to  somebody  like  me — hits  with  such 
a great  rush. 

The  bewildering  simultaneity  of 
all  the  SF  headlines  of  the  summer 
of  1997  left  me  shaking  from  the  im- 
pact of  seeing  all  that  formerly  wild 
stuff  now  unfolding  on  aU  horizons  at 
once.  I’m  old  enough,  after  all,  to  re- 
member when  commercial  jet  air- 
craft and  color  television  sets  were 
items  that  you  encountered  only  in 
the  pages  of  science  fiction  maga- 
zines, when  computers  were  called 
“thinking  machines”  and  one  with 
very  modest  computing  capacity 
needed  enough  space  to  fill  a big  lab- 
oratory, when  heart  transplants  and 
the  reattachment  of  severed  limbs 
and  remote-control  microsurgery 
were  the  stuff  of  wild  speculation.  So 
were  space  satellites  and  atomic 
bombs. 

I’ve  lived  long  enough,  now,  to  see 
all  these  fantastic  notions  perfected 
and  turned  into  the  innate  essence  of 
our  daily  mundane  reality.  I remem- 
ber the  struggle  to  get  the  first  wob- 
bly little  space  satellite  into  orbit.  I 


remember,  too,  the  day  the  first 
atomic  bomb  was  dropped  on  Hi- 
roshima. The  first  tape  recorders 
(and  then  the  first  video  recorders), 
the  long-playing  record  (and  the 
even  more  miraculous  CD),  the  ini- 
tial flight  of  the  Boeing  707,  the  com- 
ing of  the  Apple  II  computer,  the 
video  recorder,  wonder  after  wonder, 
amazement  after  amazement — I 
hved  in  a world  where  none  of  those 
existed,  and  one  by  one  I watched 
them  arrive.  And  I’ve  tried  to  absorb 
them  casually,  like  the  forward-look- 
ing science-fictionist  I’ve  been  for 
most  of  my  life:  simply  nodding  with 
quiet  pleasure  at  each  stunning  an- 
nouncement and  saying,  “Yes,  yes, 
Heinlein  wrote  about  that  one  in 
1942,  or  was  it  Asimov  in  1948?” 

But  even  as  I was  applauding  all 
that  gratifying  transformation  of  sci- 
ence fiction  into  science  fact,  I won- 
dered how  older  people  were  reacting 
to  it — my  father,  for  example,  who 
was  born  in  1901,  at  a time  when  the 
airplane  itself  had  not  been  invent- 
ed, when  radio  was  still  unknown, 
when  even  the  sight  of  an  automo- 
bile on  the  streets  was  a rarity.  He 
hved  on  into  the  time  of  color  televi- 
sion sets  and  wide-bodied  jet  airlin- 
ers and  astronauts  prancing  around 
on  the  moon.  But  could  he  make 
sense  of  it  all?  Didn’t  he  feel  some- 
times that  he  had  wandered  into  one 
of  those  wild  stories  for  which  pub- 
hshers  unaccountably  paid  his  son  so 
much  money? 

And  now  it’s  my  turn.  The  mira- 
cles haven’t  ceased — they  come  ever 
thicker  and  faster — and  my  smug  “I 
told  you  so”  attitude  of  thirty  or  forty 
years  ago  is  turning,  with  age,  to  a 
kind  of  bewildered  awe  at  the  enor- 
mity of  it  all.  Something  like  the 
summer  of  1997,  with  its  ubiquitous 
science-fictionalization  of  the  news, 
makes  me  feel  as  if  I’ve  wandered 
into  one  of  my  own  stories  of  two  or 
three  decades  ago.  (Although  those 
stories  seem  terribly  conservative 


Reflections;  The  Science-Fictionization  of  Everything 


7 


June  1998 


now!  And  so  do  everybody  else’s.  The 
other  day  I flew  from  San  Francisco 
to  New  York,  watching  people  all 
around  me  in  the  plane  concocting 
elaborate  charts  and  diagrams  in  full 
color  on  their  lap-top  computers,  or 
blithely  sending  off  E-mail  to  Pak- 
istan or  Uruguay  right  from  their 
seats.  Where  is  the  science  fiction 
story  of  1970  vintage,  or  even  1980, 
that  showed  us  any  such  scene  in  a 
story  set  in  1997?) 

Ah,  you  say.  Poor  old  Silverberg: 
he’s  gone  stiff  and  creaky  with  age. 
He  can’t  get  over  the  fact  that  a lot  of 
the  stuff  that  he  read  about  when  he 
was  a kid,  and  wrote  about  a few 
years  after  that,  has  now  come  true. 
His  ossified  imagination  can  no 
longer  handle  even  such  run-of-the- 
mill  events  as  television  pictures 
from  Mars  and  the  retrieval  of  Nean- 
derthal DNA.  And  so  it  takes  only  a 
handful  of  news  items  of  the  sort  we 
got  last  summer  to  send  him  over  the 
edge,  babbling  about  how  he  finds 
himself  living  inside  a science  fiction 
story. 

Maybe  so.  But  I have  two  rejoin- 
ders to  make. 

The  first  is  one  that  I borrow  from 
my  good  friend  Robert  Sheckley,  who 
uttered  some  memorable  words 
about  aging  in  the  introduction  to  his 
1979  short-story  collection.  The  Won- 
derful World  of  Robert  Sheckley.  He 
was  just  entering  his  fifties  then, 
and  said,  “The  current  audience  for 
science-fiction  is  a young  person’s 
audience.  I am  not  a young  person, 
curse  the  luck.  I was  writing  these 
stories  when  a lot  of  you  weren’t 
even  born  yet,  or  were  crapping  your 
diapers.  Please  don’t  hold  that 
against  me.  I don’t  like  being  old  any 
more  than  you  will.” 

I don’t  like  being  old  any  more 
than  you  will.  What  a wonderful 
line,  and  what  a marvelous  sting  is 


packed  into  that  final  word!  Because 
getting  old  happens  to  everyone  who 
doesn’t  happen  to  die  young.  I was 
once  a smart-alecky  kid  dreaming  of 
voyages  to  Mars,  and  now  I’m  a cro- 
chety  oldster  who  gets  all  rattled 
when  too  much  of  that  science-fic- 
tiony  stuff  turns  to  reality  at  the 
same  time.  And — if  you’re  lucky,  and 
last  as  long  as  I have — the  same 
thing  is  going  to  happen  to  you.  You, 
who  were  on  the  scene  when  every- 
body suddenly  began  babbling 
“http://”  and  “www”  and  got  right  out 
there  with  your  own  home  page,  will 
be  eventually  left  high  and  dry  by 
the  advent  of  do-it-yourself  nano- 
surgery or  edible  telephones  or  wire- 
less thought  transmission,  and  will 
go  around  bhnking  and  shaking  your 
head  and  muttering  about  how  god- 
damned fast  the  pace  of  progress  is 
getting  these  days.  Mstrk  my  words, 
you  will.  And  you  won’t  like  that  feel- 
ing of  being  a back  number  any  more 
than  I do. 

The  other  point  is  that  I think  it’s 
absolutely  legitimate  and  proper  for 
me  to  be  blown  away  by  a string  of 
science-fictional  headlines  about 
trips  to  Mars  and  Neanderthal  DNA 
and  all  the  rest  of  the  wonders  that 
so  bemused  and  astounded  me  in  the 
summer  of  1997.  I was  drawn  to  sci- 
ence fiction  in  the  first  place  because 
I passionately  cared  about  all  those 
fantastic  things  and  many  more  be- 
sides, and  yearned  with  all  my  heart 
to  live  long  enough  to  see  them  turn 
into  reality.  The  day  I start  reacting 
coolly  and  indifferently  to  the  sight 
of  a foot-high  six-wheeled  gizmo 
scooting  around  amidst  the  sands  of 
Mars  is  the  day  I put  my  cherished 
file  of  half-century-old  copies  of  As- 
tounding Science  Fiction  out  for  the 
next  Goodwill  Industries  pickup  and 
totter  off  toward  that  rocking  chair 
on  the  porch.  # 


8 


Robert  Silverberg 


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Vou  Con  Get  Everiiiuhere  From  Here 

I I 

James  Patrick  Kelly 


Start 


This  is  only  a test 

Complete  the  following  sentence. 
The  net: 

a)  is  the  most  important  communi- 
cation medium  since  television. 

b)  is  the  most  frustrating  technolo- 
gy since  the  programmable  VCR. 

c)  will  promote  a new  world  order. 

d)  is  science  fiction. 

Science  fiction?  Well,  something 
like.  You  see,  there’s  worldbuild- 
ing going  on  in  the  great  digital 
everywhere,  and  it’s  happening 
on  a scale  far  grander  than  anything 
Ursula  K.  Le  Guin  or  Jack  Vance  or 
Frank  Herbert  or  even  the  Good  Doc- 
tor ever  attempted.  Millions  of  people 
are  using  net  technologies  to  invent 
this  new  world,  right  before  our  eyes. 
The  net  has  a geography,  its  own  cul- 
ture. People  meet  there,  buy  stuff,  ar- 
gue, fall  in  love.  Timothy  Leary  died 
on  his  own  web  page,  which  died 
shortly  thereafter.  And  yet  none  of  it 
is  real,  just  like  the  stories  in  this 
magazine.  Sure,  we  call  it  virtual,  but 
isn’t  that  just  a cyberword  for  made 
up?  The  world  that  is  the  net  is  made 
up,  just  like  Genthen,  Big  Planet,  Ar- 
rakis,  and  Trantor.  See  what  I mean? 
But  the  real  reason  I like  to  think  of 
the  net  as  science  fiction  is  that,  use- 
ful and  fascinating  as  it  is  right  now, 
it  hasn’t  really  happened  yet. 

Under  construction 

If  the  net  had  a logo,  it  would  have 
to  be  the  ubiquitous  under  construc- 


tion gif.  The  virtual  jackhammers 
run  twenty-four  hours  a day.  And  it’s 
not  only  the  sites  that  are  under  con- 
struction; the  browsers  are  constant- 
ly being  renovated,  too.  If  there’s 
anything  that  we  can  be  certain  of,  it 
is  that  the  net  we  marvel  at  in  the 
late  nineties  will  soon  seem  as 
quaint  and  clunky  as  the  text-only 
bulletin  boards  of  the  late  eighties. 

Yes,  my  boy,  when  I was  your  age, 
we  had  to  type  our  e-mail  and  read  it 
ourselves.  And  there  was  no  video. 

Grandpa  Kelly,  what’s  type? 

Not  only  is  the  net  under  construc- 
tion but  it  can  also  be  agonizingly 
slow;  they  don’t  call  it  the  World  Wide 
Wait  for  nothing.  Many  of  the  truly 
cutting-edge  sites  take  forever  to  load. 
New  technologies  to  speed  things  up — 
and  thus  allow  the  net  to  reach  its  po- 
tential— exist  today,  but  they  cost  an 
arm  and  three  fingers.  A mature  net 
will  have  bandwidth  to  beat  the  band. 

And  a mature  net  will  work  99.7 
percent  of  the  time.  It’ll  be  there 
when  you  call  it  and  it  won’t  show 
you  the  exit  before  you’re  ready  to 
leave.  Last  week,  my  modem  refused 
to  log  on  for  two  days.  I spent  several 
frustrating  hours  making  long 
^#%$&#!  distance  calls  to  my  Inter- 
net service  provider’s  tech  support 
line.  I changed  setup  values,  fiddled 
with  initialization  strings  and  logon 
scripts  many,  many  times.  Nothing 
worked.  Finally,  the  tech  rep  just 
gave  up.  He  claimed  there  was  noth- 
ing more  he  could  do,  that  maybe  I 
should  bother  the  modem  manufac- 
turer for  a while.  I went  downstairs, 
ate  a banana,  cursed  BiU  Gates,  Marc 


10 


Asimov's 


Andreesen,  Alexander  Graham  Bell, 
and  all  their  progeny,  came  back  to 
my  computer  and  tried  one  more 
time  to  go  online.  Bingo]  And  it’s 
been  working  ever  since — knock  on 
silicon.  Understand  that  I have  no 
idea  how  the  problem  got  solved.  I 
might  as  well  have  sacrificed  a chick- 
en to  the  gods  of  Netscape. 

I bring  this  up  not  to  complain 
(well,  sort  of  to  complain),  but  to 
make  the  point  that  whatever  it  is 
that  we’ve  got  now,  it  isn’t  the  net. 
Not  yet.  What  we’ve  got  is  the  first 
paragraph  of  the  first  draft  of  a pro- 
jected decology. 

Folks,  you  ain’t  seen  nothing  yet. 


Net  Prophets 

Or  at  least,  that’s  what  the  net 
prophets  say.  They  claim  that  cyber- 
space will  bring  about  the  end  of  civi- 
lization as  we  Imow  it — and  not  a mo- 
ment too  soon.  If  you  think  your 
favorite  writers  have  some  radical 
ideas  about  the  future,  you  might 
want  to  check  out  an  electronic  docu- 
ment called  Cyberspace  and  the 
American  Dream:  A Magna  Carta 
for  the  Knowledge  Age  by  noted  di- 
gerati Esther  Dyson,  George  Gilder, 
George  Keyworth,  and  Alvin  Toffler 
{www.frc.org / pff / position.html).  Al- 
though this  manifesto  staggers  under 
the  heavy  burden  of  Tofflerspeak,  it 
does  repay  the  effort  you’ll  expend 
reading  it. 

According  to  these  pundits,  “More 
ecosystem  than  machine,  cyberspace 
is  a hioelectronic  environment  that  is 
literally  universal.”  The  way  they  see 
it,  the  march  of  progress  must  neces- 
sarily squeeze  through  your  modem. 
“Cyberspace  is  the  land  of  knowl- 
edge, and  the  exploration  of  that 
land  can  be  a civilization’s  truest, 
highest  calling.  The  opportunity  is 
now  before  us  to  empower  every  per- 
son to  pursue  that  calling  in  his  or 
her  own  way.” 

You  Con  Get  Everywhere  from  Here:  Start 


In  fact,  they  predict  not  just  one, 
but  many  revolutions.  “As  hu- 
mankind explores  this  new  ‘electron- 
ic frontier’  of  knowledge,  it  must  con- 
front again  the  most  profound 
questions  of  how  to  organize  itself  for 
the  common  good.  The  meaning  of 
freedom,  structures  of  self-govern- 
ment, definition  of  property,  nature 
of  competition,  conditions  for  cooper- 
ation, sense  of  community  and  na- 
ture of  progress  will  each  be  rede- 
fined for  the  Knowledge  Age — just  as 
they  were  redefined  for  a new  age  of 
industry  some  250  years  ago.” 

And  here  I thought  I’d  got  on  line 
for  the  e-mail,  the  chat,  the  research 
and  my  daily  dose  of  Dilbert  (www. 
unitedmedia.com/comics/dilbert). 


Wasting  Time — And  Proud  of  It! 

The  other  day  I had  dinner  with  a 
writer  pal,  Alexander  Jablokov 
(www.  sff.  net  /people  /Jablokov),  and 
we  got  to  comparing  net  habits.  He 
claimed  that  the  only  time  he  surfed 
the  net  was  when  he  was  busy  wast- 
ing time.  He  said  it  was  like  playing 
a few  hands  of  computer  solitaire  be- 
fore beginning  work  each  day,  or  tak- 
ing a midmorning  break  to  open  the 
mail  and  maybe  skim  the  new  Asi- 
mov’s. He  asked  me  how  many  times 
I had  ever  strode  into  my  office  and 
turned  on  the  computer  for  the  sole 
purpose  of  logging  in  and  cruising 
the  infobahn.  I had  to  admit  that  it 
was  not  very  often.  I too  use  the  net 
largely  as  a diversion.  But  then  I’m  a 
writer;  I’m  good  at  not  doing  what 
I’m  supposed  to. 

In  any  event,  here  are  a few  of  my 
favorite  web  distractions.  Check 
them  out  at  your  own  peril! 

Astronomy  Picture  of  the  Day 
(antwrp.gsfc.  nasa.gov  /apod /ap.htmt) 
This  is  the  first  site  on  the  net  to 
which  our  term  sense  of  wonder  actu- 
ally applies.  APOD  is  updated  daily 
with  a drop-dead  gorgeous  picture  of 

11 


June  1998 


the  universe.  There  is  also  a brief  hy- 
pertext explanation  of  what  you’re 
seeing,  written  by  a professional  as- 
tronomer, but  easily  understandable 
by  an  English  major  bite  yours  truly. 
The  site’s  producers,  astronomers 
Robert  Nemiroff  and  Jerry  Bonnell, 
claim  that  the  APOD  archive  contains 
the  largest  coUection  of  annotated  as- 
tronomical images  on  the  Internet. 

Science  Fiction  Weekly  (www. 
scifi.com/sfw)  is  the  best  science  fic- 
tion newsmagazine  that’s  not  in 
print.  While  it  does  not  yet  have  the 
depth  to  replace  a Locus  or  an  SF 
Chronicle  as  your  primary  genre 
news  source,  it  continues  to  improve. 
Its  chief  advantage  over  its  print 
competitors  is  that  it  is  updated 
every  other  week.  So  why  isn’t  it 
called  Science  Fiction  Biweekly, 
you  ask?  Don’t.  I read  it  primarily  for 
the  news  section;  the  only  way  to  be 
more  up-to-date  is  to  move  to  New 
York  or  LA  and  do  lunch  with  the 
movers  and  shakers.  There  are  also 
book,  movie,  and  game  reviews,  an 
often  interesting  visit  to  a Sci-Fi  Site 
of  the  Week,  a revisit  to  some  Classic 
Sci-Fi  and  an  e-mail  to  the  editors 
page.  Although  the  site  has  a defi- 
nite skew  to  media  SF,  it  has  recent- 
ly engaged  the  services  of  one  of  SF s 
most  redoubtable  literary  critics, 
John  Clute.  I guess  my  only  quibble 
is  that  Science  Fiction  Weekly  has 
become  yet  another  accomplice  in 
the  rehabilitation  of  that  dreadful 
non-word,  sci-fi. 

The  Surrealism  Server  (http: 
/ /pharmdec.  wustl.edu  /juju/surr/ 
surrealism.html).  If  the  world  is 
starting  to  make  too  much  sense  to 
you,  maybe  it’s  time  for  a jaunt  over 
to  the  Surrealism  Server  to  have 
yoxir  synapses  rewired.  The  surreal- 
ists continue  to  exert  a major  influ- 
ence on  SF  art;  their  fingerprints  are 
aU  over  the  iUustrations  in  this  mag- 
azine, for  example.  This  glorious 
bedlam  of  a site  presents  not  only 
links  to  the  classic  paintings,  sketch- 


es, and  collages,  but  also  wordplay 
that  is  every  bit  as  bizarre.  For  in- 
stance, the  Surrealist  Compliment 
Generator  offered  me  the  following 
accolade:  “Sound  barricades  itself 
into  rolls  of  peanut  butter  when  you 
speak.”  Not  only  that,  but  “You  wear 
your  breasts  to  their  full  extent,  like 
a man  with  an  uncontrollable  bulge 
in  his  apartment.”  Come  to  think  of 
it,  Gardner  made  the  very  same  com- 
ment to  me  back  in  1983. 

253  or  Tube  Theater:  a novel 
for  the  Internet  in  seven  cars 
and  a crash  (www .ry man-novel, 
com).  Lots  of  writers,  both  profes- 
sional and  amateur,  have  sites  on 
the  web.  253,  by  award  winning  SF 
writer  Geoff  Ryman,  is  one  of  the 
most  ambitious — and  best  written. 
Not  strictly  SF  and  not  exactly  a 
novel,  it’s  something  completely  dif- 
ferent. “Do  you  sometimes  wonder 
who  the  strangers  around  you  are?” 
asks  Ryman.  “This  novel  will  give 
you  the  illusion  that  you  can  know. 
Indeed,  it  can  make  you  feel  omni- 
scient, Godlike.”  Two  hundred  and 
fifty-three  people  are  riding  a sub- 
way train  in  London  on  January  11, 
1995;  each  of  them  are  described  in 
two  hundred  and  fifty-three  words. 
“Nothing  much  happens  in  this  nov- 
el,” writes  Ryman,  with  self-depre- 
cating humor.  “It  is  ideal  fare  for  in- 
valids.” Except  that  253  ends  in  a 
crash  horrific  enough  to  bounce  most 
invahds  right  out  of  their  beds.  A se- 
quel is  promised,  to  be  written  by 
visitors  to  the  site. 

Deja  News  (www.dejanews.com). 
I use  search  engines  a lot  and  I hate 
almost  all  of  them.  They’re  slow  and 
often  out  of  date  and  not  anywhere 
near  as  helpful  as  they  ought  to  be. 
Deja  News  is  the  exception  to  the 
rule.  It’s  a gateway  to  a part  of  the 
net  that  lots  of  cybersurfers  never 
get  around  to  visiting:  the  news- 
groups  of  the  Usenet.  Every  day  peo- 
ple post  800  megabytes  of  messages 
to  the  multitudinous  newsgroups. 

James  Patrick  Kelly 


12 


Asimov's 


That’s  the  equivalent  of  800  door- 
stop-sized  novels.  They  discuss 
everything  you  can  think  of,  includ- 
ing science  fiction.  A quick  query  to 
Deja  News  turned  up  newsgroups 
called  rec.arts.sf .written,  rec.arts. 
sf.tv,  rec.arts.sf. marketplace,  rec. 
arts. sf. fandom,  rec.arts.sf. movies, 
and  rec.arts.sf. misc.  Plowing  through 
them  all  would  take  more  time  than 
I’ve  got,  so  I use  Deja  News  to  screen 
the  newsgroups.  What  are  people 
posting  about  Mars,  the  X-Files,  di- 
nosaurs, hard  SF,  the  WorldCon? 
And  is  anyone  saying  anything  nice 
about  me? 


Exit 

It’s  time  for  the  disclaimer.  Lest 
you  think  I’m  some  kind  of  web  wiz- 
ard, let  me  confess  right  now  that  I 
am  no  such  person.  Fm  just  a science 
fiction  writer.  Three  years  ago  I didn’t 
even  own  a modem.  I take  an  inter- 
est in  the  net,  but  I’m  a&aid  a lot  of 
what  I see  and  read  zings  right  over 
my  head.  So  if  you  catch  me  in  a mis- 
take, go  ahead  and  write  a letter  to 
Gardner  and  Sheila.  Or  flame  me  di- 
rectly at  jimkelly@nh.ultranet.com. 

Fm  not  embarrassed  to  admit  I’ve 
got  a lot  to  learn.  • 


MEET  OUR  CYBERSPACE  CADET 


June  is  a good-luck  month  for 
the  new’est  Asimov’s  columnist. 
Since  1984,  fifteen  of  his  stories 
have  appeared  in  our  June  issue. 
One  of  these,  “Think  Like  a Di- 
nosaur” {June  1995),  won  the 
Hugo  award.  Five  of  his  June  tales 
{including  one  from  a competing 
magazine)  have  been  finalists  for 
the  Nebula  award,  and  three  June 
stories  have  placed  first  in  the  Asi- 
mov’s  Readers’  Award  Poll — 
“Think  Like  a Dinosaur,”  “Mr. 
Boy”  (June  1990),  and  “The  Pris- 
oner of  Chillon”  (June  1985).  An 
unpredictable  turn  of  events  was 
his  1990  victory  in  the  Readers’ 
Award  Poll  for  a poem,  “A  Drag- 
on’s Yuletide  Shopping  List”  (co- 
written with  Robert  Frazier), 
which  was  published  in  our  De- 
cemberl990  issue! 

James  Patrick  Kelly  is  the  au- 
thor of  four  novels.  Planet  of  Whis- 
pers, Freedom  Beach  (co-written 
with  John  Kessel),  Look  into  the 
Sun,  and  Wildlife,  and  he’s  pub- 
lished more  than  fifty  short  sto- 
ries. This  self-styled  “cyberspace 
cadet’s”  novelette,  “Solstice,”  was 
reprinted  in  Bruce  Sterling’s  clas- 
sic 1986  Mirrorshades:  The  Cyber- 


punk Anthology.  The  ubiquitous 
“Think  Like  a Dinosaur”  is  cur- 
rently being  produced  as  a radio 
play  for  the  Internet  by  Seeing 
Ear  Theater  (www.scifi.coni/set), 
and  it  is  also  the  title  of  the  au- 
thor’s short  story  collection. 

In  addition  to  his  writing,  Jim 
has  been  affiliated  with  the 
Artists  in  Education  Program  for 
New  Hampshire  State  Council  on 
the  arts  for  over  ten  years.  He  has 
visited  over  eighty  elementary, 
middle,  and  high  schools  to  intro- 
duce the  students  to  science 
fiction  and  fantasy  and  to  encour- 
age them  to  write  it.  He,  himself, 
is  a two-time  attendee  of  the  Clar- 
ion Writers’  Workshop  at  Michi- 
gan State  University.  He  has 
taught  the  workshop  four  times 
and  will  do  so  again  this  summer. 

An  avid  gardener,  Jim  lives 
with  his  wife  Pam,  an  employee 
of  the  Supreme  Court  of  the  State 
of  New  Hampshire.  They  have 
three  lovely  children — Maura, 
Jamie,  and  John.  Readers  can 
find  the  author  at  home  on  his 
own  page  atrwww.nh.ultra- 
net.con3/~jiinkelly. 

— Sheila  Williams 


Paul  j.  McAuley 


Faced  with  an  unbearably  hard  life 
in  the  "Factory,"  even  the  radiation 
poisoning  of  the  "up  and  out" 
seems  preferable  to  a girl  like  . . . 


Illustfolion  by  Dortyl  SRofi 


■aiAiiriiliiilk 


June  1998 


It  seemed  to  17  that  her  family  had  been  laborers  in  the  Factory  forever. 
Her  mother  claimed  that  her  great-great-great  grandparents  had  worked 
in  the  original  Factory,  and  that  they  had  helped  in  the  reconstruction  af- 
ter the  One  Big  One;  her  most  treasured  possession  was  a photo  of  men 
and  women  in  rags  standing  in  knee-deep  mud  in  front  of  a hillside  of  trees 
aU  knocked  down  in  the  same  direction. 

17  had  worked  since  she  could  walk,  when  her  mother  had  taught  her  how 
to  grade  waste  paper.  Then  she  had  cycled  with  the  kids  from  her  rack,  chas- 
ing heavy  metal  residues  in  the  flues  of  the  refineries,  harvesting  mussels  in 
the  sewers  for  their  metal-rich  shells,  sorting  through  the  spill  heaps.  She 
had  run  with  the  same  pack  for  ten  years,  had  been  boss  for  the  last  three, 
but  at  last  she  had  realized  that  she  wasn’t  interested  in  them  any  more. 
They  were  just  kids.  So  she  had  picked  a fight  with  the  next  oldest,  a lanky 
boy  called  Wulf,  had  beaten  him  bloody  and  had  told  him  that  he  was  boss 
now,  and  had  walked  away. 

That  was  last  winter.  Since  then  she’d  been  a free  laborer,  turning  up  each 
day  at  the  canal  junction  by  the  cooler  stacks  and  waiting  with  the  others  un- 
til the  shift  foremen  arrived  and  made  their  pick.  It  was  hard,  dangerous 
work.  The  men  went  to  the  refineries  or  foundries.  17  mostly  cleaned  the 
spinners,  clever  machines  that  built  up  hundreds  of  different  things  using 
frames  and  cellulose  spray.  The  spinners  never  stopped,  their  spray  heads 
chattering  away  right  above  her  while  she  dug  out  mounds  of  stinking  cellu- 
lose that  had  accumulated  beneath  the  frames.  Blood  worms  lived  in  the 
stuff,  thin  red  whips  a meter  long  that  stung  bad  if  they  lashed  your  skin. 
Rat-crabs  too,  and  roaches,  and  black  crickets. 

Her  mother  disapproved.  It  was  time  she  settled  down,  her  mother  said, 
time  she  got  herself  a man  and  made  babies. 

They  had  terrible  rows  about  it.  17  argued  that  she  could  do  what  she 
wanted,  but  she  knew  that  if  she  stayed  a free  laborer,  sooner  or  later  she’d 
get  hurt.  And  if  she  got  hurt  bad,  she’d  be  sent  to  work  the  tanks  where  wood 
pulp  was  dissolved  in  acid.  Most  people  didn’t  last  long  there;  fumes  ate  their 
lungs,  blinded  them,  ulcerated  their  skin  until  gangrene  set  in.  But  it  was 
that  or  ending  up  as  a breeder  like  her  mother,  blown  up  by  having  kids  one 
after  the  other,  or  becoming  some  jack’s  troll.  She’d  already  had  a taste  of 
that,  thanks  to  Dim,  the  prime  jack  of  her  rack.  She’d  messed  around  with 
the  other  kids  of  her  pack,  but  Dim  had  shown  her  what  real  sex  was  like. 
She  swore  she’d  kill  him  or  kill  herself  if  he  or  any  other  man  tried  it  again. 
Then  Doc  Roberts  came,  and  everjdhing  changed  forever. 

Doc  Roberts  was  ex-Service,  come  to  the  Factory  to  stretch  his  pension  by 
leechcraft.  He  rented  a shack  on  the  roof  of  one  of  the  racks  at  the  edge  of  the 
quadrant.  He  filled  it  with  sunlamps  and  plants  and  hung  out  a shingle  an- 
nouncing his  rates. 

17  went  to  see  him  the  second  decad  after  he  arrived. 

“You’re  not  sick  and  you’re  not  pregnant,”  Doc  Roberts  said,  after  a rough, 
cursory  examination.  “Why  are  you  here?” 

“You  went  up,”  1 7 said,  staring  at  him  boldly.  She  had  seen  him  gimping 
around  the  market  in  his  exoframe,  but  he  seemed  much  taller  in  his  little 
shack.  He  was  very  thin  inside  the  frame,  like  a cartoon  stick  man.  No  hair, 
his  scalp  seamed  with  lumpy  scars,  his  face  burned  brown  and  leathery;  he 
looked  like  one  of  the  turtles  that  swam  in  the  canal  by  the  cooler  outlets. 

It  was  hot  and  steamy  in  his  shack.  The  glossy  leaves  of  plants  shone  in 

Paul  J.  McAuley 


16 


Asimov's 


vivid  greens  and  oranges  under  the  rack  of  purplish  sunlamps.  There  was  a 
shelf  of  books  over  his  cot,  a toilet  connected  to  a tank  of  spirulina,  a glass- 
fronted  cabinet  where  he  kept  his  pharmaceuticals. 

Doc  Roberts  said,  “I  upped  and  I reupped.  More  than  twenty  years,  girly. 
It  made  me  what  I am.” 

“I  want  to  go.” 

“That’s  a hard  road.  Stay  in  the  dirt.  Find  a man.  Have  babies.” 

“No!  Kill  myself  first!”  Suddenly,  amazingly,  she  was  crying.  She  made 
fists,  knuckled  tears.  “You  tell  me.  Tell  me  how.  How  to  get  out  and  up!” 

Doc  Roberts  sort  of  leaned  into  his  frame,  the  way  an  ordinary  man  might 
slump  in  a chair.  He  looked  at  her — really  looked.  She  looked  right  back.  She 
knew  he  hadn’t  had  many  customers.  Breeders  looked  after  each  other  and 
their  kids;  free  laborers  paid  to  get  their  lumps  and  wounds  hacked  and 
sealed  at  the  Factory  dispensary. 

He  said,  “What’s  your  name?” 

She  said  defiantly,  “17.” 

She’d  chosen  it  herself.  She  hked  the  way  it  screwed  up  the  system.  Clerks 
would  ask  if  it  was  her  given  name,  and  she’d  say  no,  it  was  what  she  called 
herself.  Was  she  her  mother’s  seventeenth  kid,  the  clerk  would  want  to  know, 
and  she’d  say  no.  Her  age?  She  didn’t  know,  fifteen  maybe.  What  was  her 
real  name  then?  17,  she’d  say,  stubborn,  defiant.  That  was  what  she  was.  17. 
She  had  started  calhng  herself  that  a little  while  before  she’d  left  the  cycling 
pack,  had  beaten  any  kid  who  called  her  different  until  it  stuck.  Her  mother 
called  her  ’Teen,  a compromise. 

Doc  Roberts  didn’t  question  it.  He  put  his  turtle  head  to  one  side  and  said, 
‘You  pay  me,  17,  and  I’ll  give  you  some  teaching.  How  does  that  sound?” 

That  was  how  it  began.  She  took  up  cycling  again  to  pay  him.  Mercury 
chases  were  the  best.  She  knew  the  tunnels  under  the  Factory  as  well  as  any- 
one. She  knew  where  the  heavy  silvery  stuff  collected,  always  came  back  with 
twice  as  much  as  anyone  else.  But  it  was  dangerous.  Not  just  because  mer- 
cury and  other  heavy  metals  could  give  her  the  shakes  or  the  faUing  sickness, 
but  because  sooner  or  later  a gang  of  jacks  or  a pack  of  kids  would  find  her 
down  there  and  beat  her  and  maybe  kill  her  for  her  gleanings. 

She  surprised  Doc  Roberts  by  being  able  to  read  (she  had  learnt  from  the 
brief  captions  under  the  cartoon  notices  the  bulls  pasted  everywhere),  and  he 
soon  discovered  her  knack  of  being  able  to  multiply  and  divide  long  numbers 
without  really  thinking  about  it. 

‘You’re  an  idiot  savant,”  he  said. 

‘You  mean  like  a dummy?  I’m  no  dummy.” 

“Maybe  not.  But  you  have  a trick  in  your  head.  You  can  do  something  that 
takes  most  people  a lot  of  brain-hurt,  as  naturally  as  breathing.” 

“It’ll  help  me  pass  the  tests?” 

‘You’re  bright,  17.  I’U  teach  you  as  long  as  you  want  to  keep  paying  me. 
When  you’re  ready,  you  can  buy  tests  that  will  find  out  just  how  bright  you 
are.  Intelligence  is  precious,  as  precious  as  mercury  or  silver  or  copper  or 
chrome.  There  may  be  better  things  than  going  up.” 

‘You  mean  like  whores?  I don’t  think  so.” 

A few  girls  and  one  boy  from  her  rack  had  gone  that  way.  You  saw  them 
sometimes,  visiting  their  families.  The  last  one  17  had  seen,  a girl,  had  worn 
silver  boots,  silver  panties,  and  a very  short  open  mesh  dress,  nothing  else. 
17  had  looked  at  herself  afterward  and  knew  she’d  never  make  the  grade — 
wide  hips,  no  breasts,  a blob  of  a nose.  Besides,  the  best  the  whores  could 


17 


17 


June  1998 


hope  for  was  to  become  the  pla57thing  of  one  of  the  Factory  bulls  until  their 
looks  gave  out  and  they  were  sent  to  work  the  Meat  Rack. 

Doc  Roberts  gave  17  one  of  his  sharp  looks.  He  said,  “I  only  want  money  off 
you,  17. 1 upped  and  reupped.  Radiation  took  care  of  that  itch.” 

She  said,  “Would  this  cost  more  than  learning  about  the  up  and  out?” 

“Maybe.  If  you’re  real  bright,  the  bosses  might  pay  for  some  of  it.  They  need 
bright  people.” 

“I’ll  pay.  I want  out.  Doc.  I want  it  terrible  bad.” 

Doc  taught  her  more  than  math.  He  showed  her  what  the  world  beyond  the 
Factory  was  like.  17  had  never  been  outside  the  Factory,  and  now  she  hun- 
gered after  it  the  way  an  addict  has  the  jones  for  ripple  or  meth  or  smack. 
Doc  taught  her  the  true  name  of  the  world  and  the  true  name  of  its  sun,  ex- 
plained its  history. 

17  had  thought  that  the  world  was  called  the  World;  that  its  sun  was  called 
the  Sun.  Doc  told  her  that  the  world  was  really  called  Tierra;  the  sun  was  a 
star  called  Delta  Pavonis. 

“We  came  from  a long  way  away,”  Doc  said.  “So  far  away  you  have  to  mea- 
sure the  distance  in  years.”  It  took  two  days  to  explain  Einsteinian  relativity, 
and  the  reason  why  nothing  could  go  as  fast  as  light.  “That’s  why  our  ances- 
tors came  as  zygotes  in  the  seeder  ship,”  he  said. 

“Was  it  big?”  17  had  a hazy  idea  of  something  as  big  as  the  Factory  falling 
through  space  toward  a star  that  swelled  like  a balloon  to  become  the  sun. 

“Oh  no.  In  travel  mode,  it  was  not  much  bigger  than  you  or  me.  It  had  a 
light  sail  for  braking  that  spread  out  for  thousands  of  kilometers,  but  that 
was  only  a few  molecules  thick.” 

Explaining  all  this  took  more  days,  extra  lessons  after  the  lessons  17 
bought  with  her  cycler  money. 

Doc  told  her,  “When  the  seeder  hit  dirt  it  built  the  first  Factory,  and  that 
built  us,  and  cows  and  wheat  and  aU  the  other  stuff  we  eat.” 

‘Tike  porridge  and  yeast?” 

“Porridge  is  edible  plastic.  Yeast — I don’t  know  where  yeast  came  from. 
Maybe  we  brought  it  here,  maybe  it’s  native.  Some  of  my  plants  came  on  the 
seeder  ship,  17.  See  the  thin  green  ones?  That’s  wheat  grass.  I pulp  it  and 
drink  the  juice.  That’s  from  Earth,  like  you  and  me  and  cows.  The  other 
plants,  the  orange  and  red  ones,  are  native.  We  got  rid  of  most  of  the  native 
life,  but  there’s  stiU  a lot  around  in  unlocked  corners.” 

“Bugs  and  haunts.” 

‘Tes.  I suppose  you  might  have  seen  one,  now  and  then.” 

“Seen  plenty  of  bugs,  but  never  yet  a haunt.  But  they  say  there’s  one  down 
in  the  tunnels  now.  A couple  of  kids  went  missing.  Bloodworms,  though.  I 
know  about  those.”  She  showed  him  the  welts. 

“I  suppose  the  haunts  get  in  through  the  vents  of  the  main  cooling  plants, 
or  along  the  slurry  pipes  from  the  mines,”  Doc  said.  “They  are  tough  things 
because  this  was  a hard  place  to  live.  You  know  why?” 

17  nodded.  She  had  learnt  it  last  week.  “Because  of  there’s  no  broom  in  the 
system.  No  Jupiter  to  sweep  up  comets  that  fall  from  the  Oort  Cloud.  That’s 
why  the  Service  and  Comet  Watch  is  important,  else  the  world  would  get  hit 
bad  every  hundred  years.  But  why  is  it  that  way.  Doc?  Why  are  all  the  big 
planets  near  our  sun?” 

“No  one  really  knows.  Maybe  the  primordial  disc  from  which  the  planets 
condensed  was  spinning  slowly,  so  the  big  planets  formed  close  in  and  locked 
up  most  of  the  heavy  metals  in  their  cores.  But  that’s  only  a theory.” 

Paul  J.  McAuley 


18 


Asimov's 


“Well,  they  should  know  why.  It’s  why  cycling  is  so  important,  like  they  al- 
ways tell  us.  Why  heavy  metals  cost  so  much.  They  don’t  pay  well  for  cychng, 
though.  They  should,  don’t  you  think?” 

“That’s  economics,  not  orbital  mechanics,  17.  But  I suppose  it  does  all  fit 
together.” 

Doc  was  constantly  amazed  by  her  ignorance  and  by  her  eagerness  to 
learn.  She  knew  about  the  One  Big  One,  but  had  thought  it  had  wrecked  only 
the  Factory,  not  the  whole  world.  She  hadn’t  known  about  the  settlement  of 
Tierra,  the  rise  of  the  Syndic,  and  the  reason  why  people  went  up,  hadn’t 
even  known  that  the  world  was  just  one  of  a hundred  worlds.  She  was  like  a 
plant  that  will  push  up  concrete  slabs  and  break  apart  the  seams  between 
steel  plates  to  get  at  light.  She  was  hungry  for  everything  he  could  give  her. 
He  had  watched  her  work  out  from  first  principals  why  orbits  were  elliptical. 
She  had  soaked  up  Newtonian  mechanics,  tensor  calculus,  n-body  interac- 
tions. He  didn’t  spend  any  of  the  money  she  gave  him.  She  would  need  it  lat- 
er, when  she  got  out  into  the  world. 

People  began  to  notice  that  she  spent  a lot  of  time  with  Doc  Roberts.  17’s 
mother  said  that  she  shouldn’t  start  thinking  that  she  was  more  than  she 
was,  and  they  had  a furious  argument,  with  her  mother  stirring  yeast  soup 
all  the  time  and  the  latest  baby  crawling  around.  17  stormed  out,  and  then 
Dim  cornered  her  in  the  market. 

“Tell  me  why  you  go  wi’  that  old  cripple-man,”  he  said.  He  was  running 
solo,  her  one  piece  of  good  luck.  He  had  tattoos  ever3rwhere,  wore  only  ripped 
shorts  and  a harness  to  show  them  off,  and  to  show  off  his  steroid-enhanced 
muscles,  too.  He  stauik  of  sweat  and  the  goo  he  put  on  his  skin  rash.  People 
avoided  looking  at  the  two  of  them;  Dim  had  a hard  rep. 

Dim  said,  “He  not  a real  man.”  His  spittle  sprayed  her  cheeks.  ‘They  cut  it 
off  when  they  go  up.  Or  do  you  do  it  with  his  rack?” 

“You  dumb  as  a worm,”  17  told  him.  “Hung  like  one,  too.  What  you  have  isn’t 
anything.  I didn’t  even  feel  it.” 

“You  getting  a filthy  tongue,  girly.  You  getting  above  yourself.” 

Dim  tried  to  put  his  hand  over  her  mouth,  but  she  bit  his  thumb  and  got 
away  from  him.  He  shouted  after  her.  “Me  and  my  jacks  will  find  you  in  the 
tunnels,  quim!  We  ream  you  both  ends!” 

The  next  day,  someone  saw  a haunt  in  the  sewers,  stooping  over  a kid  it 
had  just  killed.  The  day  after.  Doc  told  her  that  some  bosses  were  coming  for 
a bug  hunt,  that  it  would  be  a chance  better  than  any  test. 

“You  shine  in  this,  17,  and  they’ll  take  notice.” 

“You  can  get  me  a job  bait-running?  It  should  be  mine.  I know  the  tunnels 
good.  Better  than  anyone.” 

“I  have  a little  pull.  I’m  part  of  the  Syndic,  17,  but  at  a low  level,  about  the 
same  as  the  Factory  bulls.  The  bulls  work  for  the  turf  bosses.  Above  them  are 
the  ward  bosses,  and  above  them  are  the  big  capos.  The  higher  you  are,  the 
more  you  see.  The  capos  see  a long  way.  They  give  up  some  of  what  they  have 
to  make  sure  the  world  holds  together  so  that  they  can  keep  what  they  have. 
That’s  why  we  have  Comet  Watch  and  all  the  rest  of  it.” 

“And  one  of  them  will  help  me?” 

‘They’re  coming  here  to  hunt  bugs,  not  little  girl  geniuses.  But  you  shine, 
maybe  one  of  them  will  notice,  and  he’ll  ask  me  about  you.” 

“Will  he  put  me  in  the  Service?  WiU  he  send  me  up?” 

“Better  than  that.  You’ve  got  a mind,  17.  It  shouldn’t  be  wasted  in  the  up 


17 


19 


June  1998 


and  out.”  Doc  lifted  an  arm  with  a whine  of  servo  motor.  Loose  skin  hanging 
off  bone,  like  the  old  women  who  sorted  rags.  He  said,  “Look  at  me.  This  is 
what  happens  to  people  in  the  up  and  out.  Muscle  wasting,  decalcification  of 
bones,  circulatory  collapse.  Radiation  fries  gonads  so  the  Service  sterihzes  its 
recruits.  Radiation  gives  you  cancers.  These  scars  on  my  face,  they’re  where 
keloid  growths  were  cut  away.  I lost  a meter  of  gut,  too.” 

“But  it’s  still  better  than  the  Factory.” 

“That’s  true,”  Doc  said.  “They  made  me  a citizen,  they  gave  me  medical  train- 
ing and  the  rest  of  my  education.  But  you  can’t  keep  reupping.  The  Syndic 
doesn’t  want  people  hving  permanently  in  the  up  and  out  because  they  don’t 
want  to  lose  control.  Suppose  people  decided  to  aim  comets  at  the  world  instead 
of  deflecting  them?  You  get  upped,  and  if  you  do  good,  you  can  reup,  but  then 
they  drop  you  into  the  well.  I’m  forty-two,  17. 1 got  maybe  five  more  years.” 

17  started  to  say  that  that  was  ten  more  years  than  anyone  in  the  Factory, 
but  she  saw  he  wasn’t  hstening. 

“A  mind  like  yours,”  he  said,  “it  should  burn  for  a hundred  years.  That’s 
what  a boss  can  give  you,  if  he  sees  what  you  are.” 

Almost  every  free  laborer  and  jack  signed  up  for  the  hunt;  hardly  any  made 
the  cut.  But  17  did,  and  she  had  learned  enough  to  thank  Doc  even  though 
she  thought  that  she  would  have  made  it  without  his  help.  Dim  wasn’t  on  the 
hst;  none  of  the  jacks  were.  She  saw  him  one  time  afterward,  and  couldn’t  re- 
sist taunting  him.  She  would  be  safe  from  him  for  the  next  decad,  because 
there  was  a lot  of  training  to  be  done. 

One  of  the  junior  bulls  took  charge  of  them.  Divided  them  into  groups  of 
three,  told  them  they  were  bait-runners  now.  They  would  go  ahead  of  each 
boss,  flush  out  anything  bigger  than  a rat-crab  and  drive  it  toward  the  guns. 
He  taught  them  signals  made  up  of  long  and  short  whistle  blasts,  how  to  use 
proximity  radar  and  flash  guns.  But  most  of  the  time  was  spent  drilling  eti- 
quette into  them. 

“Never  look  one  of  the  bosses  in  the  eye,”  the  bull  said.  “Never  speak  un- 
less you  are  spoken  to,  and  always  answer  at  once.  If  you  don’t  know  the  an- 
swer, say  so.  Say  I don’t  know,  boss.  Go  on,  try  it.” 

The  bait-runners  gave  up  an  uncoordinated  mumble. 

“Smarter.  Quicker.” 

I don’t  know,  boss! 

“Fucking  awful,”  the  bull  said.  “A  bunch  of  crickets  could  do  better.”  He  was 
a tall  man  with  a pot  belly  and  a bald  patch  he  tried  to  hide  by  combing  his 
glossy  black  hair  sideways.  There  were  sweat  patches  on  his  white  shirt  un- 
der his  arms.  He  strutted  down  the  line,  staring  fiercely  at  the  men  and 
women,  striking  any  who  dared  meet  his  gaze.  17  looked  at  her  feet,  trembhng 
with  fear  and  anger.  When  he  reached  the  end,  he  turned  and  yelled,  ‘You  all 
hsten  up!  The  people  coming  here  are  some  of  the  most  important  on  the  plan- 
et! They  can  erase  the  Factory  at  a whim.  I have  ten  days  to  bring  you  to  some 
sort  of  civihzed  behavior.  You  will  lay  down  your  lives  for  them  if  necessary. 
You  wiU  give  up  everything  you  have,  at  once  and  willingly.  You  will  cut  off 
your  dicks,  cut  out  the  hearts  of  your  children!  And  you  will  sing  out  loud  and 
clear  when  I ask,  or  111  send  aU  of  you  to  the  mines.  Let’s  hear  it  once  again!” 

They  all  sang  out. 

I DON’T  KNOW,  BOSS! 

Doc  fed  17  private  information  about  the  visiting  bosses.  The  training  was  so 
hard,  he  had  to  visit  her  in  the  hour  before  hghts  out.  It  was  the  first  time  she 

Paul  J.  McAuley 


20 


Asimov's 


had  seen  him  outside  his  shack.  He  had  pics  of  each  boss,  and  told  17  which 
family  they  belonged  to,  how  they  stood  in  the  comphcated  hierarchies.  They 
were  all  men,  all  very  young.  None  of  them  seemed  to  have  proper  jobs.  They 
chmbed  mountains  aroimd  the  North  Pole,  sailed  catamsurans  in  the  south- 
ern ocean,  spent  their  winters  on  the  wide,  white  beaches  of  the  Archipelago. 
They  all  looked  the  same  to  17.  Tanned  skin,  broad  white  smiles,  buzz-cut 
blond  hair,  good  cheekbones,  firm  jaws.  She  was  good  with  numbers,  not  peo- 
ple. She  still  hadn’t  got  their  names  straight  in  her  head  when  they  arrived. 

The  whole  Factory  got  the  day  off.  For  the  first  time  in  a hundred  years, 
the  machines  were  stood  down.  The  silence  hummed  in  17’s  head.  She  won- 
dered if  it  was  like  the  silence  of  the  up  and  out.  The  foremen  handed  out 
flags  and  streamers,  and  people  waved  them  as  the  cavalcade  of  limousines 
swept  through  the  main  drag  to  the  compound  where  the  buUs  lived. 

There  were  fireworks  that  night,  fans  of  colored  stars  exploding  imder  the 
dome.  Calcium  red,  copper  green,  sodium  yellow,  cobalt  blue.  The  next  day, 
the  bug  hunt  started. 

17  was  teamed  with  a couple  of  older  men,  who  made  it  clear  they  had  no 
time  for  her.  She  didn’t  care.  She  knew  that  she  could  shine  only  as  herself, 
not  as  part  of  a team.  She  knew  every  bit  of  the  sewer  tunnels,  didn’t  need  to 
look  at  the  corroded  plates  that  marked  every  intersection  as  she  blew 
through  the  perimeter  of  the  area  assigned  to  her  team,  making  a wide  arc 
that  pivoted  on  one  of  the  Factory’s  waste  treatment  plants.  There  were  al- 
ways plenty  of  mussel  beds  and  pack  crab  nests  there,  and  she  had  a feeling 
that  the  haunt  would  need  something  to  eat  other  than  the  three  kids  it  had 
snatched. 

It  was  dark  and  warm  in  the  tunnels.  Only  a few  of  the  lights  worked,  a 
broken  chain  of  dim  red  stars  stretching  away  under  the  low  curved  roof.  17 
sloshed  through  knee-deep  scummy  water.  Water  feU  thunderously  in  one  of 
the  tunnels;  huge  islands  of  stiff  foam  whirled  on  the  currents.  Pack  crab 
nests  bristled  along  the  waterline  there,  built  of  scraps  of  plastic  and  metal. 
The  entrance  hole  of  each  nest  was  blocked  by  the  swollen  claw  of  its  resi- 
dent; desperate  cyclers  risked  getting  bitten  or  poisoned  to  tear  up  the  nests 
for  the  scrap  they  contained.  Barnacles  floated  their  feathery  sieves  on  the 
water,  snatched  at  her  wet  suit.  She  edged  past  a reef  of  razor-edged  mus- 
sels, paused  at  a Y junction. 

One  way  led  to  the  cooling  water  inlet  complex,  the  other  toward  the 
labyrinthine  drains  beneath  the  pulp-holding  tanks.  Something  was  moving 
toward  her,  coming  toward  the  junction.  She  put  her  head  close  to  the  water, 
heard  slow  sloshing  footsteps,  jammed  against  the  wall,  ready  to  blow  her 
whistle.  But  it  was  something  stranger  and  more  fearsome  than  the  haunt  or 
any  bug. 

It  was  one  of  the  bosses. 

“Hey,”  he  said  breathlessly.  “I  saw  some  sign  back  there.  Parallel  scrapes 
on  the  bricks  of  the  roof?  New,  cut  right  through  the  black  slime  stuff.  My 
proximity  radar  gives  too  many  signals  because  of  the  currents,  but  it  must 
be  close,  don’t  you  think?” 

17  nodded.  She  had  forgotten  aU  of  the  bull’s  etiquette  lessons. 

'The  boss  grinned.  “That’s  why  you’re  here,  right?  You’re  not  on  my  team, 
but  you  guessed  it  would  hang  around  here.” 

She  nodded  again.  He  was  taller  than  Doc,  well  muscled  and  lithe,  and  im- 
possibly young.  His  black  and  pink  wetsuit  was  clean  and  new,  not  a rip  or 


17 


21 


June  1998 


patch  on  it.  His  gun  was  slung  on  one  broad  shoulder,  his  breathing  appara- 
tus on  the  other.  His  grin  was  very  white  in  his  tan  face;  his  hair  was  so 
blond  it  was  as  white  as  new  paper.  She  could  smell  his  cologne  through  the 
stink  of  the  tunnels. 

He  said,  “I’ll  bet  you  know  every  centimeter  of  this  place.  We’ll  clean  up. 
Raphe  will  be  pissed.  Where  do  you  think  it  might  be?” 

17  pointed  down  the  tunnel  that  led  toward  the  cooling  water  inlet. 

“You  lead  on,”  the  boss  said.  He  kept  talking  as  they  sloshed  through  the 
water,  moving  with  the  current.  “You’ve  lived  here  long?  No,  wait,  I bet 
you’ve  lived  here  all  your  life.  You  know.  I’ve  been  further  north  than  this, 
but  it’s  bleaker  around  here  than  at  the  pole.  Just  the  forests  and  the  sea, 
and  the  sea  is  covered  with  ice  pack.  And  the  mines  further  inland.  I saw  the 
pipes  that  carry  the  ore  slurry  from  the  air,  like  black  snakes  through  the  for- 
est. That  was  before  the  weather  closed  in.  Sleet  and  lightning?  I suppose  it’s 
the  iron  in  the  rock.  I’m  not  surprised  the  place  is  domed;  only  haunts  and 
ghouls  and  bugs  could  live  outside.  Now,  where  do  we  go  from  here?” 

They  had  reached  another  Y junction.  Both  tunnels  sloped  steeply  upward 
away  from  them.  The  inlet  complex  fed  seawater  to  the  cooling  system  from 
concrete  surge  baffles  and  was  half  as  big  as  the  Factory  itself.  17  had  never 
been  this  close  to  the  outside  before,  and  didn’t  know  where  to  go  next,  but 
she  didn’t  want  to  look  stupid,  and  so  pointed  to  the  left-hand  tunnel.  But 
they  had  gone  only  a little  way  when  it  split  again. 

The  boss  saw  her  confusion  and  said  gently,  “I’ll  go  right  and  you  go  left. 
We’ll  meet  back  here  in  ten  minutes.  Oh,  I bet  you  don’t  have  a watch.  Here.” 

He  stripped  a black  chronometer  from  his  wrist.  “I  have  a chip,”  he  said. 
‘This  is  just  jewelry.” 

17  took  it.  It  was  very  heavy.  The  casing  was  titanium  or  chrome  steel  or 
some  other  impossibly  rare  alloy.  Certainly  the  crystal  beneath  which  black 
numbers  counted  the  seconds  was  a cultured  diamond. 

The  boss  said,  ‘T  don’t  know  your  name.” 

“Katrina.” 

She  said  it  without  thinking. 

'The  boss  made  a funny  little  bow.  “Katrina,  I’m  pleased  to  be  hunting  with 
you.  If  you  see  anything,  blow  hard  on  your  whistle,  and  I’ll  be  right  there.” 

Two  minutes  into  the  tunnel,  she  knew  that  the  haunt  was  close.  Pack  crab 
nests  crushed.  Fresh  scrapes  from  the  thing’s  spines  on  the  ceiling,  on  the 
walls.  A breeze  chilled  her  face.  It  smelled  as  fresh  as  the  boss,  clean  and 
wild.  'The  smell  of  outside.  The  light  ahead  was  daylight. 

'The  haunt  was  at  the  screens  at  the  end  of  the  tunnel.  It  had  already  twist- 
ed aside  the  first  set,  was  prying  at  the  second.  It  was  silhouetted  against  the 
thin  grey  daylight.  Thousands  of  white  flakes — snow — blew  aroimd  it. 

It  turned  on  her  with  a swift  liquid  grace,  opening  its  mandibles  wide.  It 
was  as  tall  as  the  boss  and  thinner  than  Doc.  Its  long  body  was  articulated  in 
a dozen  places.  Its  carapace  was  red  and  gold.  Fringes  of  bronze  hair  grew 
thickly  at  the  joints  and  at  the  bases  of  its  spines.  Its  dozen  limbs  were  as 
thin  as  wire,  and  impossibly  long. 

It  had  a terrible  beauty. 

17  froze,  one  hand  on  her  utility  belt.  Flares,  the  proximity  radar,  a flash  gun 
useless  in  daylight,  her  whistle.  Nothing  else,  not  even  a pry  bar.  She  covdd  have 
burnt  it  with  a flare,  but  she  knew  that  would  only  enrage  it,  not  kill  it.  It  didn’t 
matter  if  a few  bait-runners  were  killed  as  long  as  the  bosses  got  their  sport. 

When  she  did  not  move,  the  haunt  turned  back  and  started  to  pry  at  the 

Paul  J.  McAuley 


22 


Asimov's 


screen  again.  It  was  working  at  the  bolts,  she  saw,  trying  to  turn  them 
against  beds  of  corrosion.  It  was  trying  to  get  out. 

Pipes  hung  from  the  ceiling  in  an  overhead  maze.  Rotten  lagging  hung 
from  them  in  leprous  sheets.  17  ran  forward,  jumped  as  the  haunt  whirled 
again,  grabbed  a pipe  with  both  hands,  and  swung  through  90  degrees,  right 
over  the  thing’s  head.  The  soles  of  her  boots  crashed  into  the  screen,  and  it 
bowed  outward  with  a squeal.  The  haunt  slashed  at  her,  catching  several  of 
its  wire-thin  claw-tipped  limbs  in  her  wet  suit.  Frantic  with  fear,  she  twisted 
free,  while  it  squalled  below,  got  a leg  free  and  kicked  and  kicked  at  rusted 
mesh.  The  haunt  dropped  to  a crouch  and  threw  itself  at  the  screen. 

Screen  and  haunt  tumbled  away.  Hanging  upside  down  from  the  pipe,  17 
saw  the  haunt  fall,  but  she  could  not  believe  it  was  gone.  Snow  and  wind 
blew  around  her.  She  was  still  hanging  there  when  the  boss  came  back  and 
foimd  her. 

He  helped  her  down.  He  saw  the  signs  of  the  haunt  and  leaned  at  the  edge 
of  the  broken  screen,  looking  down.  17  trembled  with  cold  and  spent  fear.  She 
was  convinced  that  the  boss  would  kiU  her,  but  when  he  turned,  he  was  grin- 
ning. He  said  that  the  hunt  itself  was  more  fun  than  killing  some  poor  bug, 
and  then  he  was  gone,  running  into  the  darkness  beneath  the  Factory.  17  fol- 
lowed as  best  she  could.  She  had  twisted  her  ankle  when  she  had  kicked  out 
the  screen. 

She  didn’t  see  him  again.  By  the  time  she  got  back  to  the  mustering  point, 
the  bosses  were  flying  back  to  the  city.  She  racked  her  equipment  and  went 
to  find  Doc  to  tell  him  that  she  had  failed,  and  found  the  worst  thing  of  all. 

Doc  was  lying  battered  and  bloody  in  his  broken  and  battered  exoframe 
amidst  the  ruin  of  his  indoor  garden.  He  was  dead.  A motor  in  the  exoframe 
kept  trying  to  lift  his  left  arm,  whining  and  relaxing,  whining  and  relaxing.  17 
tore  out  wires  imtil  it  stopped.  Books  lay  everywhere,  tom  and  soaked  with  wa- 
ter leaking  from  a broken  irrigation  pipe.  All  the  sunlamps  had  been  smashed. 
The  glass  front  of  the  pharmacy  cabinet  was  smashed;  the  shelves  were  empty. 

17  saved  a few  of  the  books,  picking  them  at  random,  and  left  Doc  for  the 
Factory  cops  to  find.  They  came  for  her  a few  hours  later,  but  she  knew  they 
couldn’t  pin  Doc’s  death  on  her  because  she  had  been  down  in  the  tunnels. 
They  questioned  her  anyway — Doc  had  been  a citizen  after  aU — ^but  the  beat- 
ing was  routine,  and  in  the  end  they  let  her  go.  One  told  her  that  Doc  had 
probably  been  killed  by  some  junky  looking  for  a high,  but  she  knew  better. 

She  knew  even  before  she  saw  Dim.  It  was  the  next  day.  He  was  whistling 
and  hooting  amongst  his  jacks  while  she  waited  with  the  other  laborers. 

After  a shift  spent  reaming  out  pipes  that  carried  cellulose  sludge  from  one 
settling  tank  to  another,  she  paid  to  get  real  clean,  bought  gloss  and  perfume 
from  the  store.  The  perfume  stung  her  skin.  It  smelt  more  strongly  of  roses 
than  any  rose  had  ever  smelt. 

Dim  was  hanging  with  his  jacks  in  his  usual  bar.  She  ignored  him  but 
knew  he’d  come  over. 

He  did. 

“I  hear  some  junky  did  your  cripple-man  lover,  girly-girl.  You  don’t  worry. 
Dim’ll  see  to  all  your  needs!” 

17  endured  the  touch  of  saliva  spray  on  her  face,  the  smell  and  heat  of  him. 
She  found  it  amazingly  easy  to  smile. 

Dim  said,  “How  did  the  cripple-man  do  you?  Not  good,  I bet.  I bet  you  come 


17 


23 


June  1998 


looking  for  me  to  show  you  how  ail  over  again.”  This  last  said  loudly,  for  his 
jacks  to  hear.  He  acknowledged  their  whistles  and  hoots  with  a casual  wave. 
“I  got  what  you  want,”  he  told  17,  his  voice  close  and  hoarse  in  her  ear. 
“Prime  worker  meat,  hot  and  hard.” 

17  put  her  hand  between  his  legs,  squeezed  what  was  there  and  walked 
right  out,  her  heart  beating  as  quickly  as  it  had  when  the  haunt  had  turned 
to  face  her. 

Dim  followed  her  through  the  market,  shoved  her  into  a service  entrance 
behind  one  of  the  stalls.  “Not  here,”  she  said.  “I  know  a place.” 

‘T  bet  you  do.  But  we  ain’t  going  to  any  of  yoiu-  secret  places.” 

He  was  breathing  heavily.  She  let  his  hands  do  things. 

“You  didn’t  come  armed,”  he  said.  “You  know  what’s  right  for  you.” 

‘T  know.” 

“That  junky  who  did  your  cripple-man  did  you  a favor.  You  wait  here.” 

He  was  back  two  minutes  later  with  tubes  of  vodka.  “We  go  to  my  place,” 
he  said,  and  held  her  wrist  tight.  She  didn’t  resist. 

It  was  an  upper  bimk  in  the  men’s  dorm.  She  felt  the  brush  of  the  eyes  of 
every  man  who  turned  to  watch  as  Dim  walked  her  down  the  narrow  aisle.  She 
got  up  on  the  bimk.  'The  mattress  stank  of  Dim  and  stale  marijuana.  'There 
was  a TV  hung  on  a stay  in  one  comer,  a locker  at  the  foot  of  the  mattress. 

She  started  to  pull  at  her  belt  while  Dim  velcroed  the  curtains  together. 
When  he  turned,  she  snapped  her  wrist  and  at  the  same  time  thrust  her 
hand  forward;  the  long  sliver  of  plastic  she’d  ripped  from  her  belt  stiffened 
when  she  snapped  it,  went  into  his  eye,  and  punched  through  the  thin  bone 
behind  it.  Blood  burst  hotly  over  her  fingers.  He  shivered  and  fell  on  her  with 
all  his  weight,  dead  as  poor  Doc.  She  found  the  card  that  opened  the  locker, 
shoved  his  body  through  the  cintains  and  dropped  all  the  vials  and  capsules 
and  hypos  on  top  of  it,  swung  down,  and  walked  out,  looking  straight  ahead. 

No  one  tried  to  stop  her. 

Thirty  days  later,  she  was  five  thousand  kilometers  away,  under  a hot  blue 
sky  on  the  roof  of  the  Service  induction  building.  She  was  in  a line  with  two 
hundred  fresh  recruits,  waiting  for  the  shuttle  copters  that  would  take  them 
out  to  boot  camp.  She  was  wearing  the  cleanest  dungarees  she  had  ever 
worn,  crisp  and  sky  blue,  polished  boots,  a padded  impact  helmet  with  its  sil- 
vered visor  up. 

Doc  Roberts  had  wanted  her  to  change  her  orbit  by  a close  encounter  with 
one  of  the  bosses,  the  way  ships  gained  delta  vee  by  swinging  past  a planet, 
but  she  knew  that  this  was  her  true  vector.  She  would  fly  it  as  true  and 
straight  as  she  could,  chmb  as  high  as  she  could.  She  had  only  her  hunger. 
'The  rest  she  had  left  behind.  She  was  no  longer  17.  She  was  a recruit,  newly 
born  into  the  world. 

'The  sergeant  addressed  the  Une.  He  was  a veteran,  his  face  like  a leathery 
mask,  one  eye  socket  empty.  His  exoframe  was  just  Uke  Doc’s.  “You’re  in  the 
Service  now!”  he  yelled.  His  amplified  voice  echoed  off  into  the  sky.  “You’re  go- 
ing up  and  out,  beyond  the  ken  of  mortal  men!  You’re  meat  in  a can.  Everything 
human  will  be  burnt  away.  You  don’t  want  that,  then  step  out  of  line  now!” 

No  one  did.  The  Service’s  psych  profiling  was  good. 

“Close  up  and  straighten  up,”  the  sergeant  yelled. 

Moving  in  unison  with  her  fellow  recruits,  she  snapped  down  the  visor  of  her 
helmet.  She  was  no  longer  17.  She  had  left  that  behind  with  her  true  name. 
518972  was  stenciled  in  black  above  her  visor.  'That  was  her  number  now.  • 


24 


Paul  J.  McAuley 


Illustrafion  by  Shirley  Chan 


WILLY  IN  THE  NANO-LAB 

Willy  made  a nano<ritter, 
set  It  on  his  little  sister. 

It  dissolved  her  into  goo, 
reassembled  her  as  a kangaroo. 

Uttle  Willy,  oh  so  clever 

put  more  nano-machines  together. 

Willy  wasn't  quite  so  smart: 
they  took  Willy  right  apart. 

It  wasn't  quite  the  thing  to  do* 
dissolved  his  playroom  into  goo. 

Now  California's  just  goo  that's  gray 
we  didn't  need  It  anyway. 

— Geoffrey  A.  Landis 


James  Patrick  Kelly 


lllustrafion  by  Steve  Cavallo 


LOVE  STORY 


James  Patrick  Kelly  tells  us  he  has  "wanted  to  write  a 
story  that  examined  gender  roles  for  a long  time,  and 
had  notes  about  a three-sexed  alien  species  that  date 
back  to  1990.  I finally  started  the  story  because  I needed 
something  to  bring  to  the 
Sycamore  Hill  Writer's 
Workshop  last  year. 

Although  I had  the 
ending  and  the 
structure  when  I 
began,  I didn't  find 
out  what  it  all  meant 
until  I got  to  the 
last  page." 


June  1998 


One 

Mam  should  have  guessed  something  was  wrong  as  soon  as  the  father  en- 
tered the  nursery.  His  ears  were  slanted  back,  his  ruby  fur  fluffed.  He 
smelled  as  sad  as  a cracked  egg.  But  Mam  ignored  him,  skimming  her 
reading  finger  down  the  leaf  of  her  lovestory.  It  was  about  a family  just 
like  theirs,  except  that  they  lived  in  a big  house  in  the  city  with  a pool  in  every 
room  and  lots  of  robot  servants.  That  family  loved  one  another,  but  bad  people 
kept  trying  to  drive  them  apart. 

“How’s  the  scrap  tonight?”  The  father  shut  the  door  behind  him  as  if  it 
were  made  of  glass. 

It  was  then  that  Mam  reahzed  the  mother  wasn’t  with  him.  “What  is  it?” 
She  bent  the  corner  of  the  leaf  back  to  mark  her  place.  The  father  and  moth- 
er always  visited  together.  She  loosened  her  grip  on  the  lovestory  and  it  re- 
wound into  its  watertight  case. 

“Wa-wa,  it’s  the  lucky  father!”  The  scrap  tumbled  out  of  the  dark  corner 
where  she  had  been  hiding  and  hugged  the  father’s  legs.  “Luck  always.  Pa- 
pa-pa.'”  The  father  staggered,  almost  toppled  onto  the  damp,  spongy  rug,  but 
then  caught  himself. 

The  scrap  had  been  running  wild  aU  night,  talking  back  to  the  jokestory 
she  was  only  half-watching  on  the  teU,  choreographing  battles  with  her  me- 
chanical ants,  making  up  nonsense  songs,  trying  to  crawl  in  and  out  of  Mam’s 
pouch  for  no  good  reason.  It  was  almost  dawn  and  the  scrap  was  still  skitter- 
ing around  the  nursery  like  a loose  button. 

“Oh,  when  the  father  swims  near,”  sang  the  scrap,  “and  he  comes  up  for 
air,  all  the  famihes  cheer.” 

He  reached  down,  scooped  her  into  his  arms  and  smoothed  her  silky  brown 
fur,  which  was  wet  where  it  had  touched  the  floor.  It  had  only  been  in  the 
last  month  that  the  scrap  had  let  anyone  but  Mam  hold  her.  Now  she  happi- 
ly licked  the  father’s  face. 

“Who’s  been  teaching  you  rhyme?”  he  said.  “Your  mam?”  He  laughed  then, 
but  his  wide,  yellow  eyes  were  empty. 

’“Mam  is  fat  and  Mam  is  slow.  If  I’m  a brat,  well,  she  don’t  know.” 

“Hush,  little  scrap,”  said  the  father.  ‘Your  tongue  is  so  long  we  might  have 
to  cut  some  off.”  He  snipped  two  fingers  at  her. 

“Eeep!”  The  scrap  wriggled  in  his  arms  and  he  set  her  down.  She  scram- 
bled across  the  room  to  Mam’s  settle  and  would’ve  wormed  into  her  pouch, 
but  Mam  was  in  no  mood  and  cuffed  her  lightly  away.  'The  scrap  was  almost 
a tween,  too  old  for  such  clowning.  Soon  it  would  be  time  for  them  to  part;  she 
was  giving  Mam  stretch  marks. 

“Silmien,  what  is  it?”  Mam  waved  at  the  tell  to  turn  the  scrap’s  annoying 
jokestory  off.  “Something  has  happened.” 

'The  father  stiffened  when  she  named  him.  This  was  no  longer  idle  family 
chatter;  by  saying  his  name,  she  had  made  a truth  claim  on  her  mate.  For  a 
moment,  she  thought  he  might  not  answer,  as  was  his  right.  But  whatever  it 
was,  he  must  have  wanted  to  teU  her  or  why  else  had  he  come  to  them? 

“It’s  Valun,”  he  said.  “She’s  gone.” 

“Gone?”  said  Mam.  “Where?” 

“To  Pelotto.”  There  was  an  angry  stink  to  the  father  now.  “She  went  to 
Pelotto,  to  live  with  the  ahens.” 

“Pelotto?”  Mam  was  confused.  “But  the  scrap  is  almost  weaned.” 
“Obviously,”  said  the  father.  “She  knows  that.” 


28 


James  Patrick  Kelly 


Asimov's 


Mam  was  confused.  If  she  knew,  then  how  could  she  leave?  “What  about 
her  patients?” 

“Gone?”  The  scrap  whimpered.  “Mother  gone,  mother?” 

‘Who  will  give  the  scrap  her  name?”  Mam  reached  an  arm  around  the  httle 
one  to  comfort  her.  “And  it’s  time  to  quicken  the  new  baby.  The  mother,  Val- 
un  and  I have  to  . . .”  She  paused,  uneasy  talking  about  birthing  with  the  fa- 
ther. ‘What  about  the  baby?”  she  said  weakly. 

“Don’t  you  understand?  She  has  left  us!”  The  father’s  anger  was  not  only  in 
his  scent,  but  spilled  over  into  his  words.  “You.  Me.  She  has  left  the  family. 
She’s  an  out,  now.  Or  maybe  the  ahens  are  her  family.” 

Mam  rose  from  her  settle.  She  felt  as  if  she  were  hefting  a great  weight;  if 
she  did  not  bear  the  load,  the  whole  house  might  collapse  around  them.  “This 
is  my  fault,”  she  said.  “She  does  not  trust  me  to  carry  the  baby,  nurse  it  into 
a scrap.” 

“It’s  not  you!”  the  father  shouted.  “It’s  her”  The  scrap  shrank  from  the 
crack  of  his  voice.  ‘We’re  still  here,  aren’t  we?  Where  is  she?" 

Mam  stooped  to  let  the  scrap  wriggle  into  the  pouch. 

“She  thinks  I’m  stupid,”  said  Mam.  She  felt  the  moisture  in  the  rug  creep 
between  her  toes.  “She  has  nothing  to  say  to  me  anymore.” 

“That’s  not  true.” 

“I  heard  her  tell  you.  And  that  all  I read  are  lovestories.” 

The  father  squished  across  the  room  to  her  then,  and  she  let  him  stroke  the 
short  fur  on  her  foreleg.  She  knew  he  meant  to  comfort,  but  this  unaccus- 
tomed closeness  felt  like  more  weight  that  she  must  bear.  “This  has  gone  very 
badly,”  he  said.  He  brought  his  face  up  to  hers.  “I’m  sorry.  It’s  probably  my 
fault  that  she’s  gone.”  He  smelled  as  sincere  as  newly  split  wood,  and  Mam 
remembered  when  she  had  fallen  in  love  with  them,  back  at  the  gardens. 
Then  it  was  only  Valun  and  Silmien  and  her.  “Something  I did,  or  didn’t  do. 
Maybe  we  should’ve  stayed  in  the  city,  I don’t  know.  It  has  nothing  to  do  with 
you,  though.  Or  the  scrap.” 

“But  what  will  happen  to  the  new  baby?”  Mam  said.  Her  voice  sounded 
very  small,  even  to  her. 

“1  love  you.  Mam.”  The  father  pricked  his  ears  forward,  giving  her  complete 
attention.  “Maybe  Valun  loves  you  too,  in  her  way.  But  I don’t  think  you  and 
I will  ever  see  that  baby.” 

Mam  felt  the  scrap  shiver  inside  her. 

The  father  lingered  for  a few  moments  more,  although  everything  impor- 
tant had  been  said.  Mam  coaxed  the  scrap  out  of  hiding  and  she  slipped  her 
head  from  the  pouch.  She  steired  at  the  father  as  he  rubbed  the  fluff  around 
her  nose,  saying  nothing.  The  scrap  had  just  started  her  tween  scents,  an- 
other sign  that  it  was  time  for  them  to  part;  she  gave  off  the  thin,  bright 
smell  of  fear,  sharp  as  a razor.  The  father  made  warbling  sounds  and  her 
edge  dulled  a little.  Then  he  licked  the  side  of  her  face.  He  straightened  and 
took  Mam  by  surprise  when  he  gave  her  an  abrupt  good-day  lick,  too.  “I’m 
sorry.  Mam,”  he  said,  and  then  he  was  gone. 

Mam  collapsed  onto  her  settle.  'The  heated  cushion  was  blood  hot,  but  did 
little  to  ease  the  chill  that  gripped  her  neck.  For  a moment  she  sat,  brittle  as 
ice,  unsure  what  to  do.  The  next  ten  minutes  without  Valun  were  harder  to 
face  than  the  next  ten  years.  In  ten  years  they’d  probably  be  dead.  Mam  and 
the  father  and  the  mother,  their  story  forgotten.  But  just  now  Valun’s  ab- 
sence was  a hole  in  Mam’s  hfe  that  was  too  wide  to  cross  over.  Then  the  scrap 
stirred  restlessly  against  her. 


Lovestory 


29 


June  1998 


“Time  to  sleep,”  Mam  said,  tugging  at  the  scrap’s  left  ear.  “Almost  dawn.” 
No  matter  what  happened,  she  was  still  this  one’s  mam. 

The  scrap  shook  her  head.  “Not  tired  not.” 

“You  want  the  sun  to  scratch  your  eyes  out?”  Mam  rippled  her  stomach 
muscles,  squeezing  her  from  the  pouch  like  a seed.  The  scrap  mewled  and 
then  slopped  across  the  wet  rug  as  if  she  had  no  bones.  “You  pick  up  your 
things  and  get  ready.”  Mam  gave  the  scrap  a nudge  with  her  foot.  She  might 
have  indulged  the  little  one;  after  all,  the  scrap  had  just  lost  her  mother.  But 
then  Mam  had  just  lost  her  mate  and  there  was  nobody  to  indulge  her.  “Make 
sxme  you  clear  all  your  projects  off  the  tell.” 

The  scrap  formed  up  her  ants  and  marched  the  httle  robots  back  into  the 
drawer  of  her  settle.  She  ejected  her  ID  from  the  tell,  flipped  it  onto  the  tan- 
gle of  ants  and  shut  the  drawer.  She  sorted  the  piUows  she  had  formed  into  a 
nest.  She  turned  off  the  pump  that  circulated  water  through  her  rug,  dove 
into  the  nursery’s  shallow  egg-shaped  pool  at  the  narrow  end  and  immedi- 
ately shd  out  at  the  wide  end.  “Does  this  mean  I can’t  go  to  the  gardens?”  She 
shook  the  water  from  her  fur. 

“Of  course  not.  This  has  nothing  to  do  with  growing  up.  You’ll  be  a tween 
soon,  too  big  for  the  pouch.” 

“But  what  about  my  name?” 

‘The  father  will  give  you  one.  I’ll  help  him.” 

“Won’t  be  the  same.” 

“No.”  Mam  hesitated.  “But  it  will  be  enough.” 

'The  scrap  smoothed  the  fur  flat  against  her  chest.  She  was  almost  two  and 
her  coat  had  begun  to  turn  the  color  of  her  mother’s:  blood  red,  deepening  like 
a sunset.  “They’re  the  parents,”  she  said.  “They  were  supposed  to  take  care 
of  us.” 

Mam  tried  not  to  resent  her.  The  scrap  had  been  taken  care  of.  She  was 
about  to  leave  the  family,  go  off  to  the  gardens  to  live.  She’d  fall  in  love  with 
a father  and  a mam  and  start  a new  family.  It  was  Mam  who  had  not  been 
taken  care  of.  Mam  and  the  new  baby.  ‘They  did  their  best.” 

“I  wish  she  were  dead,”  said  the  scrap.  “Dead,  red,  spread  on  a bed.”  She 
was  careful  as  she  wriggled  into  Mam’s  pouch.  “Do  you  think  she’ll  come  to 
visit  me  at  the  gardens?” 

“I  don’t  know.”  Mam  realized  then  that  she  didn’t  know  anything  about 
Valun.  'The  mother  had  always  been  restless,  yes,  and  being  a doctor  in  this 
little  nowhere  had  only  made  things  worse.  But  how  could  aliens  be  more  im- 
portant than  the  family?  “But  I’ll  come  visit.” 

“You  have  to,  you.”  said  the  scrap.  “You’re  my  old,  fat  mam.” 

‘That’s  right.”  Mam  tickled  her  behind  the  ears.  “And  I will  never  leave 
you.”  Although  she  knew  that  the  scrap  would  leave  her  soon  enough,  just 
like  she  had  left  her  mam. 

Mam  got  up  to  darken  the  windows  against  the  rising  sun.- It  was  a chore 
getting  around:  the  scrap  bobbed  heavily  against  her  belly  as  she  crossed  the 
room.  In  the  last  few  days,  the  scrap  had  begun  to  doze  off  on  her  own  settle; 
Mam  was  once  again  getting  used  to  the  luxury  of  an  uninterrupted  day’s 
sleep.  But  it  felt  right  to  carry  the  little  one  just  now,  to  keep  her  close. 

Mam  waddled  back  to  her  settle  through  the  soothing  gloom.  She  wasn’t 
tired,  and  with  the  scrap  in  the  pouch,  it  was  hard  to  find  a comfortable  posi- 
tion. The  scrap  was  fidgety  too.  Mam  wondered  whether  the  father  was 
sleeping  and  decided  he  was  probably  not.  He’d  be  making  a stoiy  about  what 
had  happened,  trying  to  understand.  And  the  mother?  No,  Valun  wasn’t  a 

30  James  Patrick  Kelly 


Asimov's 


mother  any  more.  She  was  an  out.  Mam  focused  on  the  gurgle  of  water  in  the 
pool  and  tried  to  let  the  sound  quench  her  thoughts. 

There  were  never  ahens  in  the  kinds  of  lovestories  Mam  hked  to  read.  Fa- 
thers and  mothers  might  run  off  to  he  an  out  for  a while,  but  everyone  would 
be  so  unhappy  that  they'd  come  back  at  the  end.  Of  course,  mams  never  ran. 
Or  else  one  of  the  three  mates  might  die  and  the  others  would  go  to  the  city 
and  try  to  find  a good  out  to  take  their  place. 

She  started  when  the  scrap’s  lips  brushed  the  tender  skin  near  her  nipple. 
At  first  she  thought  it  was  an  accident,  but  then  she  felt  it  again,  tentative  but 
clearly  dehberate,  a question  posed  as  loving  touch.  Her  first  impulse  was  to 
push  her  away;  the  scrap  had  fed  that  afternoon.  But  as  the  nubbly  little 
tongue  probed  the  edges  of  her  aureole.  Mam  knew  that  it  wasn’t  hunger  that 
the  scrap  sought  to  ease.  It  was  grief.  Mam  shivered  and  the  underfur  on  her 
neck  bristled.  Had  the  scrap  tried  to  nurse  out  of  turn  on  any  other  day.  Mam 
would  certainly  have  shaken  her  from  the  pouch.  But  this  day  they  had  each 
been  wovmded;  this  feeding  would  ease  not  only  the  scrap’s  pain  but  Mam’s  as 
well.  It  was  something  they  could  do  for  each  other — maybe  the  only  thing. 
With  a twitch  of  excitement,  she  felt  her  milk  letting  down.  It  wasn’t  much,  it 
wasn’t  time,  but  the  scrap  had  such  a warm,  clever  mouth. 

“Oh,”  said  Mam.  “O/i.” 

The  father  had  told  her  once  that,  when  she  nursed,  chemicals  flooded  her 
brain  and  seeped  into  her  milk.  He  said  this  was  how  Mam  was  making  the 
scrap  into  who  she  was.  He  told  her  the  names  of  all  the  chemicals,  but  she 
had  forgotten  them.  Mam  had  a simpler  explanation.  She  was  a mam,  which 
meant  that  her  emotions  were  much  bigger  than  she  was,  so  they  spiUed  onto 
whoever  was  nearest.  The  mother  always  used  to  say  that  she  was  a different 
person  when  she  was  with  Mam,  because  of  her  smell.  Even  the  father  re- 
laxed when  the  family  came  together.  But  it  was  the  scrap  Mam  was  closest 
to,  into  whom  she  had  most  often  poured  the  overflow  of  feelings.  Now,  as 
they  bonded  for  one  of  the  last  times,  perhaps  the  last  time.  Mam  was  filled 
with  ecstasy  and  regret.  Of  all  the  pleasure  the  scrap  had  given  her,  this  was 
the  most  carnal.  When  she  sucked,  she  made  a wet,  httle  sovmd,  between  a 
squeak  and  a chck,  that  made  the  top  of  Mam’s  head  tingle.  Mam  enfolded 
her  bulging  pouch  with  both  arms  and  shifted  the  scrap  slightly  so  that  she 
came  at  the  nipple  from  a different  angle.  She  could  smell  the  bloom  of  her 
own  excitement,  heady  as  wine,  thick  as  mud.  She  thought  she  might 
scream — but  what  would  the  father  say  if  he  heard  her  through  the  walls? 
He  would  not  understand  why  she  was  taking  pleasure  with  the  scrap  on  this 
night  of  all  nights.  He  would  . . . not . . . understand.  When  the  urgent  sound 
finally  welled  up  from  the  deepest  part  of  her,  she  closed  her  throat  and 
strangled  it.  “My  . . . little,”  she  gasped,  and  it  was  as  if  Valun  had  never 
gone,  the  aliens  had  never  come  to  plague  the  families  with  their  wicked  wis- 
dom. ‘My  little  . . . scrap.” 

The  weight  lifted  from  her  and  for  a brief,  never-ending  moment,  she  felt 
as  light  as  air. 


Two 

Silmien  was  proud  of  his  scrap.  ‘Tevul,”  he  corrected  himself,  cupping  the 
name  he  had  given  her  on  his  tongue.  He  was  so  proud  that  losing  her  moth- 
er almost  didn’t  matter  anymore.  He  spotted  her  and  some  of  her  friends 


Lovestory 


31 


June  1998 


splashing  in  the  pond  across  the  bone  garden.  She  was  so  quick,  so  carefree, 
so  beautiful  in  the  chill,  blue  hght  of  the  mothermoon. 

“What?”  Mam  had  stopped  to  smell  the  sweetbind  that  wound  through  the 
skeleton  of  someone’s  long  dead  ancestor;  she  hurried  over  to  him.  ‘What?” 

He  pointed.  Mam  was  already  nearsighted  from  spending  so  much  time  in- 
doors, the  curse  of  the  nursery.  Distance  seemed  to  confuse  her.  “She  hasn’t 
seen  us  yet,”  he  said. 

“The  scrap?” 

“The  tween,”  said  Silmien.  “Tevul.” 

Silmien  was  proud  of  Mam,  too.  She  had  been  a good  parent,  considering 
everything  that  had  happened.  After  all,  Tevul  was  their  firstborn.  Silmien 
knew  just  how  lonely  the  long  rainy  season  had  been  for  Mam,  especially 
since  she  didn’t  exactly  understand  about  Valun  and  the  aliens. 

But  that  wasn’t  right.  Silmien  was  always  surprised  at  how  much  Mam 
understood,  even  though  she  did  not  follow  the  news  or  query  the  tell.  She  en- 
gaged the  world  by  means  that  were  mysterious  to  him.  If  she  did  not  always 
reach  for  the  complex,  her  grasp  of  essentials  was  firm.  Silmien  drew 
strength  from  her  trust  in  him — and  her  patience.  Even  though  it  was  a bur- 
den on  her  not  to  be  nm-sing  a scrap,  she  had  never  once  nagged  him  to  start 
looking  for  a mother  to  take  Valun’s  place. 

‘Tm  glad  you  came  tonight.  Mam.”  He  wanted  to  put  an  arm  around  her, 
but  he  knew  that  would  make  her  uncomfortable.  She  was  a mam,  not  a 
mother.  Instead,  he  stooped  and  picked  a pink  buttonbright  and  offered  it  to 
her.  She  accepted  it  solemnly  and  tucked  it  behind  her  ear. 

There  was  something  about  visiting  the  gardens  that  revived  Silmien, 
burned  troubles  away  like  morning  mist.  It  was  not  only  nostalgia  for  that 
simple  time  when  Valun  had  chosen  him  and  he  had  found  Mam.  It  was  the 
scent  of  the  flowers  and  ponds,  of  mulch  and  moss,  of  the  golden  musk  of  old 
parents,  the  sharp,  hormone-laden  perfume  of  tweens  and  the  round,  honest 
stink  of  chickens.  It  was  the  fathermoon  chasing  the  mothermoon  across  an 
enormous  sky,  the  family  obehsks  pointing  like  fingers  toward  the  stars.  Val- 
un always  used  to  tease  him  about  being  such  a romantic,  but  wasn’t  that  a 
father’s  job,  to  dream,  to  give  shape  to  the  mud?  The  garden  was  the  place 
where  families  began  and  ended,  where  futures  were  spun,  lives  honored. 

“Over  here!”  Tevul  had  finally  caught  sight  of  them.  “Come  meet  my 
friends!” 

Silmien  waved  back.  “More  introductions,”  he  whispered  to  Mam.  “I  don’t 
recognize  a single  face  in  this  batch.”  It  was  only  his  second  visit  of  the  dry 
season,  but  he  was  already  having  trouble  keeping  them  all  straight.  Al- 
though he  was  glad  Tevul  was  popular,  he  supposed  he  resented  these  fortu- 
nate tweens  for  stealing  his  little  scrap  away  from  him.  Tevul,  he  reminded 
himself  again,  Tevul.  At  home,  he  and  Mam  still  called  her  the  scrap.  “Come 
along,  Mam.  Just  a long  smile  and  short  bow  and  we’ll  have  her  to  ourselves.” 

“Not  me,”  said  Mam.  ‘Tou.” 

Silmien  bhnked  in  surprise.  'There  was  that  odd  smell  again,  a dusty  stale- 
ness, like  the  corner  of  an  empty  closet.  If  Valun  had  been  here,  she  would 
have  known  immediately  what  to  do,  but  then,  if  she  were  here.  Mam  wouldn’t 
be.  “Nonsense,”  said  Silmien.  “We’re  her  family.” 

Mam  crouched  abruptly,  making  herself  as  small  as  jjossible.  “Doesn’t  mat- 
ter.” She  smoothed  the  sagging  pouch  to  her  belly  self-consciously. 

“Why  did  you  come  then,”  said  Silmien,  “if  not  to  see  Tevul?” 

“You  wanted  me.” 


32 


James  Patrick  Kelly 


June  1998 


“Mam,  the  scrap  wants  you  too.” 

“I’m  not  here.”  Mam  was  staring  at  her  feet. 

They  had  to  stop  arguing  then,  because  a clutch  of  old  parents  entered  the 
garden,  giggling  and  stroking  the  bones.  One,  a father  with  thin,  cement-col- 
ored fur,  noticed  the  buttonbright  behind  Mam’s  ear  and  bent  to  pick  one  for 
himself.  His  companions  teased  him  good-naturedly  about  acting  his  age. 
Then  a shriveled  mam  popped  one  of  the  flowers  into  her  mouth,  chewed  a 
few  times  and  spat  it  at  the  father.  Everyone  laughed  except  Silmien  and 
Mam.  Ordinarily,  he  enjoyed  the  loopy  antics  of  the  old,  but  now  he  chafed  at 
the  interruption. 

“I’ll  bring  Tevul  to  you,”  he  whispered  to  Mam.  “Is  that  what  you  want?” 

She  made  no  reply.  She  curled  her  long  toes  into  the  damp  soil  as  if  she 
were  growing  roots. 

Silmien  grunted  and  left  her.  Mam  was  not  getting  any  easier  to  live  with. 
She  was  moody  and  stubborn  and  often  reeked  of  self-loathing.  Yet  he  had 
stuck  by  her,  given  her  every  consideration.  Not  once,  since  he  had  first  told 
her  about  Valun,  had  he  let  his  true  feelings  show.  It  struck  him  that  he 
ought  to  be  proud  of  himself,  too.  It  was  small  comfort,  but  without  a mate  to 
share  his  life,  all  he  had  were  ghmmers  and  wisps. 

“Pa-pa-pa.”  Tevul  hauled  herself  partly  out  of  the  pond  and  perched  on  the 
grassy  bank.  “My  father,  Silmien.”  Her  glistening  coat  clung  to  her  body, 
making  her  as  streamhned  as  a rocket.  She  must  have  grown  foxir  or  five  cen- 
timeters since  the  solstice.  “Here  is  Mika.  Tilantree.  Kujalla.  Karmi.  Jotan. 
And  Putket.”  Tevul  indicated  each  of  her  friends  by  splashing  with  her  foot 
in  their  direction.  Karmi  and  Jotan  and  Putket  were  standing  in  the  shallows 
and  acknowledged  him  with  polite  but  not  particularly  warm  bows.  Kujalla — 
or  was  it  Tilantree?— was  treading  water  in  the  deep;  she  just  stared  at  him. 
Only  Mika  clambered  up  the  hank  of  the  pond  to  greet  him  properly. 

“Silmien,”  said  Mika  as  they  crossed  hands.  “It  is  truly  an  honor  to  meet 
you.” 

“It  is  you  who  honor  me,”  Silmien  murmured.  The  tween’s  effusiveness  em- 
barrassed him. 

‘Tevul  tells  us  that  you  write  stories.” 

Silmien  shot  Tevul  a glance;  she  returned  his  gaze  innocently.  “I  write 
many  things,”  he  said.  “Mostly  histories.” 

“Lovestories?”  said  Mika. 

Tilantree’s  head  disappeared  beneath  the  surface  of  the  pond. 

“I  wouldn’t  call  them  lovestories,  exactly,”  Silmien  said.  “I  don’t  hke  senti- 
ment. But  I do  write  about  families  sometimes,  yes.” 

Tilantree  surfaced  abruptly,  splashing  about  and  making  rude,  blustery 
sounds.  The  three  standing  tweens  smirked  at  her. 

“Silmien  has  been  on  the  tell,”  said  Tevul.  “Write,  bright,  show  me  the 
light.” 

‘My  mam  was  on  the  tell  last  year,”  said  one  of  the  standing  tweens,  “and 
she’s  a stupid  old  log.” 

“Even  ahens  get  on  the  tell  now,”  said  another. 

“Have  you  written  any  lovestories  about  aliens?”  Mika  was  smirking  too. 

With  a sick  lurch,  Silmien  realized  what  was  going  on.  The  tweens  were 
making  fun  of  him — and  Tevul.  Only  his  trusting  little  scrap  didn’t  get  it.  He 
wondered  if  the  reason  she  was  always  in  the  middle  of  a crowd  was  not  be- 
cause she  was  popular,  but  because  she  was  a freak. 

“Can’t  write  lovestories  about  ahens.”  Tilantree  rolled  onto  her  back. 


34 


James  Patrick  Kelly 


Asimov's 


“Why  not?”  said  Tevul. 

She  did  not  reply.  Instead,  she  sucked  in  a mouthful  of  pond  water  and 
then  spat  it  straight  up  in  the  air.  The  three  standing  tweens  spoke  for  her. 

‘Their  mothers  are  mams.” 

“Perverts” 

‘Two,  few,  haven’t  a clue.  Isn’t  that  right,  Tevul?” 

The  air  was  suddenly  vinegary  with  tween  scorn.  Tevul  seemed  taken 
aback  by  the  turn  of  the  conversation.  She  drew  her  knees  to  her  chest  and 
looked  to  Silmien,  as  if  he  could  control  things  here  in  the  gardens  the  way 
he  had  at  home. 

“No,”  he  said,  coming  around  the  pond  to  Tevul.  “I  haven’t  written  about 
the  aliens  yet.”  His  voice  rose  from  the  deepest  part  of  him.  “But  I’ve  thought 
a lot  about  them.”  He  could  feel  his  scent  glands  swell  with  anger  and  imag- 
ined his  stink  sticking  its  claw  into  them.  “Unlike  you,  Tdantree.”  He  singled 
out  the  floating  tween  as  the  leader  of  this  cruel  little  gang.  “Maybe  you 
should  try  it.”  He  reached  Tevul,  tugged  her  to  her  feet,  and  pulled  her  to 
him.  “You  see,  they’re  our  future.  They’re  calhng  us  to  grow  up  and  join  the 
universe,  all  of  us,  tweens  and  families  and  outs  and  the  old.  If  they  really 
are  perverts  as  you  say,  then  that’s  what  we  will  be,  someday.  I suppose 
that’s  a big  thought  to  fit  into  a small  mind.”  He  looked  down  at  his  scrap. 
“What  do  you  say,  Tevul?” 

“I  don’t  know  what  you’re  talking  about.”  Her  eyes  were  huge  as  the  moth- 
ermoon. 

“Then  maybe  we  should  discuss  this  further.”  He  bowed  to  the  others. 
“Luck  always.”  He  nudged  Tevul  toward  the  bone  garden. 

Silmien  heard  the  tweens  snickering  behind  him.  Tevul  heard  it  too;  her 
gait  stiffened,  as  if  she  had  sand  in  her  joints.  He  wondered  if  the  next  time 
he  visited  her,  she  might  be  like  them.  Tilantree  and  her  friends  had  the  next 
four  years  to  twist  his  scrap  to  their  shallow  thinking.  The  family  had  made 
her  a tween,  but  the  garden  would  make  her  into  a mother.  Silmien  felt  re- 
moved from  himself  as  they  passed  the  wall  built  of  skulls  that  marked  the 
boundary  of  the  bone  garden.  No  Tevul.  No  Valun.  Mam  a stranger.  He  could 
not  believe  that  he  had  defended  the  aliens  to  the  tweens.  That  was  Valun 
talking,  not  him.  He  hated  the  ahens  for  luring  her  away  from  him.  It  was  al- 
most as  if  they  had  seduced  her.  He  shivered;  maybe  they  were  perverted.  Be- 
sides, he  must  have  sounded  the  pompous  fool.  Who  was  he  to  be  speaking  of 
small  minds?  He  was  as  ordinary  as  a spoon. 

“Well?”  said  Tevul. 

“Well  what?” 

“Pa-pa,  you  embarrassed  me,  pa.” 

He  sighed.  “I  suppose  I did.” 

“Is  this  the  way  you’re  going  to  be?”  said  Tevul.  “Because  if  it  is  .. .” 

“No,  I’ll  mind.”  He  hcked  two  fingers  and  rubbed  them  on  her  cheekbone. 
“But  are  you  sure  they’re  your  friends?” 

“Silmien!” 

“I  just  thought  I’d  ask.” 

“If  they’re  not,  it’s  your  fault.”  She  skipped  ahead  down  the  path  and  then 
turned  on  him,  blocking  his  way.  “Why  do  you  always  have  to  bring  Mam?” 

“What  do  you  mean,  always?”  He  looked  over  her  shoulder.  The  old  parents 
had  doddered  off,  but  Mam  had  not  moved.  Even  though  she  was  still  a good 
thirty  meters  away,  he  lowered  his  voice.  “It’s  only  been  three  times,  and  she 
wanted  to  see  you.” 


Lovestory 


35 


June  1998 


“Why  can’t  she  wait  until  I come  home  for  a visit?  Besides,  I don’t  have 
anything  to  say  to  her.  What  am  I supposed  to  do,  play  a game  of  fish  and 
snakes?  CUmb  into  her  fimity  old  pouch?  Fm  not  a scrap  anymore!” 

“She’s  unhappy,  Tevul.  She  feels  unwanted,  useless.” 

“Don’t  use  my  name,  because  there’s  nothing  I can  do  about  that.”  Tevul’s 
ears  went  flat  against  her  head.  “It’s  strange,  you  two  here  together.  When 
the  others  have  visitors,  they  get  their  mothers  and  fathers.  She’s  not  my 
mother.” 

“No,”  he  said,  “she’s  not.” 

Tevul’s  stem  facade  crumbled  then  and  she  broke  down,  quietly  but  com- 
pletely, just  as  her  mother  had  on  the  night  she  had  left  him.  And  he  hadn’t 
seen  it  coming;  SUmien  cursed  himself  for  having  stones  up  his  nose  and  knot- 
holes for  eyes.  Tevul’s  body  was  wracked  by  sobs  and  she  keened  into  his  chest 
so  that  Mam  wouldn’t  hear.  “They  say  such  mean  things.  'They  say  that  Mam 
picked  my  name,  not  you,  and  that  she  named  me  after  a character  in  a stupid 
lovestory.  I try  to  joke  along  with  them  so  they  won’t  make  a joke  of  me,  but 
then  they  start  in  about  my  mother,  they  say  that  because  she’s  a doctor  . . . 
that  the  ahens  . . .” 

She  turned  a scared  face  up  to  him,  her  scent  was  bitter  and  smoky.  ‘What 
happened  to  the  baby,  pa-pa?  Is  he  stiU  in  her?  I want  to  know.  It’s  not  fair 
that  I never  got  to  see  you  puU  him  from  mother  and  bring  him  to  Mam,  that’s 
what’s  supposed  to  happen,  isn’t  it,  not  all  the  disgusting  things  they  keep 
saying,  and  I’m  supposed  to  be  there,  only  I wasn’t  because  she  went  to  the 
aliens,  it’s  not  my  fault,  Fm  tired  of  being  different,  I want  to  be  the  same,  in 
a real  family  like  Tilantree,  the  same.”  She  caught  her  breath,  sniffed  and 
then  rubbed  her  face  into  thestubby  fur  on  his  chest.  “No  blame,  no  shame,” 
she  said.  “The  same.”  She  shuddered,  and  the  hysterics  passed,  as  cleanly  as 
a summer  squall. 

He  bent  down  and  hcked  the  top  of  her  head.  “Are  you  unhappy  here,  my 
beautiful  httle  Tevul?” 

She  thought  about  it,  then  sniffed  and  straightened  her  dignity.  “This  is 
the  world,”  she  said.  “There  is  nowhere  else.” 

The  orange  fathermoon  was  up  now,  resuming  his  futile  chase  of  the  moth- 
ermoon.  It  was  the  brightest  part  of  the  night,  when  the  two  parent  moons 
and  their  billion  star  scraps  cast  a hght  like  spilled  milk.  A stirring  along  a 
hedge  of  bunchbead,  where  a farmbot  was  harvesting  the  dangling  clusters 
of  fruit,  distracted  Silmien  momentarily. 

“I  am  proud  of  you,”  he  said.  It  wasn’t  what  he  wanted  to  say,  but  he  couldn’t 
think  of  anything  better.  When  the  robot  passed  them,  he  dipped  into  its  hop- 
per, pulled  out  a handful  of  bunchbead  and  offered  them  to  Tevul.  She  took 
some  and  smiled.  Silence  shd  between  them.  Somewhere  in  the  distance,  the 
chickens  were  singing. 

Tevul  watched  the  stars  as  she  ate.  “Where  is  Mars?”  she  said  at  last. 

“It’s  too  far  away.”  Silmien  looked  up.  ‘We  can’t  see  it.” 

“I  know  that,  but  where  is  it?” 

“Kadut  showed  me  their  star  last  week.”  He  came  up  behind  her  and,  rest- 
ing his  elbow  on  her  shoulder,  pointed  so  that  she  could  sight  along  his  fore- 
arm. “It’s  in  'The  Mask,  there.” 

“Why  did  they  come,  the  aliens?” 

“They  want  to  help,  I guess.  ’That’s  what  they  say.” 

‘T  have  to  get  back  soon,”  said  Tevul.  “Let’s  go  see  Mam.” 

Tevul  was  very  pohte  to  Mam  and  Silmien  could  see  that  the  visit  cheered 

36  James  Patrick  Keiiy 


Asimov's 


Mam  up.  Mam  insisted  on  waiting  while  Silmien  walked  Tevul  back  to  her 
burrow,  but  he  finally  understood  that  this  was  what  both  of  them  wanted. 
Back  at  the  burrow,  Tevul  showed  him  a lifestory  she  was  working  on.  It  was 
about  OUut,  the  scientist  who  had  first  identified  estrophins,  the  hormones 
that  determined  which  females  became  mothers  and  which  mams.  Silmien 
was  impressed  by  Tevul’s  writing  and  how  much  she  had  absorbed  from  the 
teaching  tells  in  just  one  season.  She  was  quick,  like  her  mother.  Tevul 
promised  to  copy  her  working  draft  onto  the  tell,  so  he  could  follow  along 
with  her  research.  As  he  was  getting  ready  to  leave,  her  roommate  Laivan 
came  in.  To  his  rehef,  Silmien  remembered  her  name.  They  chatted  briefly. 
Silmien  was  on  his  guard  for  any  sign  of  mockery,  but  there  wasn’t  any. 
Laivan  seemed  to  like  Tevul,  and  for  her  sake,  tolerated  his  intrusion  into 
their  privacy. 

“Luck  always,”  he  said.  “To  both  of  you.”  And  then  he  left. 

It  was  only  later  that  his  anger  caught  up  with  him.  Mam  had  fallen 
asleep,  lulled  by  the  whoosh  of  the  go-to  through  the  tunnels,  so  there  was  no 
one  to  notice  when  he  began  to  wring  his  hands  and  squirm  on  his  seat.  First 
he  was  angry  at  himself,  then  at  Tilantree,  then  at  Tevul’s  teachers,  then  at 
himself  again,  until  finally  his  outrage  settled  on  Valun. 

She  had  been  the  leader  of  their  family.  Where  she  jumped,  they  followed, 
even  if  they  landed  in  mud.  It  had  been  her  idea  to  move  to  the  paddies, 
where  the  air  was  thick  and  the  water  tasted  of  the  swamp.  Farmers  needed 
doctors,  too,  she  said.  She  had  been  the  one  who  healed  the  family’s  wounds 
as  well,  the  one  they  all  talked  to. 

Yet  when  she  left  them,  she  wouldn’t  say  exactly  why  she  was  going,  only 
that  there  was  something  important  she  had  to  find  out  from  the  aliens.  Val- 
un had  ripped  his  life  apart,  left  him  incomplete,  but  he  had  tried  not  to  hurt 
her  the  way  she  had  hurt  him.  Speakers  from  the  tell  had  interviewed  him 
about  Valun  and  about  his  life  now.  In  all  his  statements,  he  had  protected 
her.  Her  work  with  the  ahens  was  important,  he  said,  and  he  supported  it,  as 
aU  the  famihes  must.  There  were  so  many  diseases  to  be  cxu*ed,  so  much  pain 
to  be  eased.  It  was  an  honor  that  she  had  been  chosen.  If  he  had  followed  a 
different  path,  it  was  because  he  was  a different  person,  not  a better  one.  He 
had  done  aU  this,  he  realized  now,  not  because  it  was  the  right  thing  to  do, 
but  because  he  stUl  loved  her. 

Only  Silmien  had  not  reahzed  how  much  she  had  hurt  Tevul.  Valun  hadn’t 
visited  the  gardens,  hadn’t  even  copied  a message  to  the  tell.  Silmien  had 
long  since  decided  that  Valun  had  left  the  family  because  she  had  been  bored 
with  him,  and  maybe  he  could  understand  that.  But  no  mother  ought  to  be 
bored  with  her  own  tween!  For  an  hour,  his  thoughts  were  as  blinding  as  the 
noonday  sun. 

Eventually,  Silmien  had  to  calm  himself.  Their  stop  was  coming  up  and  he’d 
have  to  rouse  Mam  soon.  What  was  it  Tevul  had  said?  This  was  the  world. 
What  did  he  have  to  give  to  it?  A new  family?  The  truth  was,  he  couldn’t  imag- 
ine some  poor  out  taking  Valun’s  place.  But  life  was  too  short,  twenty  years 
from  pouch  to  bone  garden.  A new  family  then — and  afterward,  he’d  give  the 
world  his  story.  He  would  need  to  get  some  distance  from  Valun;  he  could  see 
that.  But  eventually  he  would  write  of  how  she  had  hurt  him  and  Mam  and 
Tevul.  He  would  tell  how  he  had  borne  the  pain,  like  a mam  carries  a scrap. 
He  paused,  admiring  the  image.  No,  not  a lovestory — the  story  of  how  he  had 
suffered.  Because  of  her. 

Because  of  Valun  and  the  aliens. 


Lovestory 


37 


June  1998 


Three 

Valun  thought  she  could  feel  the  baby  swimming  inside  her.  Impossible. 
The  baby  was  no  bigger  than  her  thumb.  He  was  bUnd  and  hairless  and  weak 
and  brainless,  or  nearly  so.  Couldn’t  swim,  didn’t  even  know  that  he  was 
alive. 

The  baby  wasn’t  moving;  she  knew  that  the  waves  she  felt  were  made  by 
the  muscles  of  her  own  uterus.  The  contractions  weren’t  painful,  more  like 
the  lurch  of  flying  through  turbulence.  Only  this  was  a predictable  turbu- 
lence, a storm  on  a schedule.  The  contractions  were  coming  more  frequently, 
despite  her  fierce  concentration.  It  was  what  distressed  her  most  about  giv- 
ing birth.  Valun  had  gotten  used  to  being  in  control,  especially  of  her  own 
body. 

The  humans  had  almost  complete  control  of  their  bodies;  it  was  their  as- 
tonishing medicine  that  had  drawn  her  to  them.  They  had  escaped  from  na- 
ture, vanquished  diseases,  stretched  life  spans  to  the  brink  of  immortality. 
They  managed  their  emotions,  commanded  their  thoughts,  summoned  inspi- 
ration at  will.  And  on  those  rare  occasions  when  they  reproduced  . . . well, 
they  could  play  their  genome  like  a flute.  There  were  no  stupid  humans,  no 
wasted  space  in  their  population.  No  mother  was  inconvenienced  by  labor 

Another  lurch.  Too  soon  for  another  contraction.  Then  she  realized  that  it 
was  the  go-to  decelerating.  Coming  to  a station.  The  readout  in  the  front 
bulkhead  lit  up.  Uskoon.  Less  than  half  an  hour  until  she  was  home.  Plenty 
of  time. 

She  didn’t  want  to  be  travehng  while  she  was  in  labor,  but  this  was  the  only 
way  to  have  the  baby  on  her  terms.  Mothers  were  supposed  to  give  birth  in  the 
nursery  with  their  happy  families  gathered  around  them.  She  would  be  in  the 
nursery  soon  enough,  only  she  doubted  that  the  family  would  be  all  that  hap- 
py to  see  her.  Mam  would  be  vastly  relieved — maybe  that  was  within  sight  of 
happiness.  Silmien,  however,  would  be  furious  that  she  was  forcing  this  baby 
on  him  and  then  leaving  him  to  care  for  it  with  Mam.  He’d  strike  the  martyr’s 
pose,  maybe  even  write  about  it.  The  scrap?  She  probably  hated  Valun.  Valun 
would’ve  hated  her  mother,  had  she  done  something  like  this  when  she  was  a 
tween.  Tweens’  deepest  feelings  were  for  themselves;  she’d  grow  out  of  it.  Val- 
un had  heard  that  he  had  named  her  Tevul,  after  the  heroine  of  that  story  he 
liked  so  much.  Was  it  Drinking  the  Rain?  No,  the  other  one.  But  then  Silmien 
liked  too  many  stories  too  much.  The  world  was  not  a story. 

Thinking  about  them  made  Valun  feel  like  the  loneliest  person  in  the  uni- 
verse. Part  of  her  desperately  wanted  to  go  back  to  stay.  She  longed  to  sleep 
and  eat  and  breathe  again  with  her  family.  But  not  to  talk;  if  she  told  them 
what  she  had  learned,  it  might  destroy  them.  Living  with  the  humans  had 
not  made  her  happy  at  all.  Indeed,  most  of  the  outs  in  Pelotto  were  miserable. 

Valun  now  knew  what  she  had  only  suspected  when  she  left  the  family. 
The  world  they  had  been  born  into  was  a lie.  There  was  no  reason  for  the 
laws  of  birth  order.  No  reason  why  she  or  Silmien  or  Mam  or  their  little 
scraps  should  have  such  brutally  short  life  spans.  Mams  could  be  mothers, 
mothers  could  nurse,  outs  could  have  babies. 

No  reason  why  there  had  to  be  families  at  all. 

Of  course,  the  humans  did  not  advocate  change.  They  offered  only  infor- 
mation; it  was  up  to  each  intelligent  species  to  decide  how  to  use  it.  Except 
that  their  message  was  corrosive  as  acid.  Everything  was  negotiable.  Reality 
was  a decision — and  no  one  here  was  making  it. 


38 


Jomes  Patrick  Kelly 


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June  1998 


This  idea  had  infected  Valun’s  imagination.  Even  if  all  the  families  took 
from  the  humans  was  the  abihty  to  prolong  lives,  the  rigid  structure  of  their 
culture  must  surely  crumble.  She  wasn’t  sure  what  would  come  after,  or  who. 
Perhaps  those  people — those  outs — would  be  happy.  But  how  could  anyone 
alive  today  bear  to  watch  the  families  collapse?  Valun  didn’t  want  to  inflict 
that  future  on  Silmien  and  Mam  and  the  scrap,  so  she  had  exercised  her 
right  of  silence  and  cut  them  off  entirely.  If  they  wanted  to  learn  what  she 
had,  they  would  have  to  choose,  as  she  had  chosen.  But  her  silence  had  iso- 
lated Valun  from  the  ones  she  loved  most.  She  belonged  to  no  family  now, 
only  to  herself.  She  was  alone,  but  it  was  not  what  she  had  wanted.  Alone. 
She  drifted  alone  on  the  whisper  of  the  go-to. 

And  dreamed  of  smells.  The  sweetness  of  rain  brushing  her  nose  hke  a lace 
veil.  The  honeycup  he  had  put  behind  her  ear;  he  loved  to  pick  flowers  and 
give  them  to  her.  The  velvet  scent  of  grass  crushed  beneath  the  weight  of 
warm  bodies.  It  had  been  so  long  ago  that  they  had  made  this  baby — much 
more  than  the  traditional  two  years — that  she  had  forgotten  where  it  hap- 
pened. Under  the  moons,  out  in  the  fields,  and  her  head  filled  with  the  husky 
father  smell  that  was  hke  a hck  between  the  legs.  Then  the  hot,  silky  bouquet 
of  sex.  She  felt  as  if  there  were  a hand  inside  her,  squeezing.  The  pressure 
was  not  cruel,  hut  rather  the  firm  grip  of  a lover.  “Silmien!”  His  name  caught 
in  her  throat. 

Valun  started  awake  at  the  sound  of  her  own  voice.  The  seat  beneath  her 
was  damp  with  the  yeasty  soup  of  her  birth  waters.  “Oh,  no,”  she  said.  Ten 
more  minutes.  She  focused  all  her  attention  on  the  knot  under  her  belly  and 
the  pressure  eased — a little.  Lucky  there  were  no  other  passengers  in  the 
compartment.  Luck  always,  Silmien  had  said  on  the  night  she  had  left  him. 
Why  did  he  keep  popping  into  her  head?  Concentrate.  She  was  thinking 
womb  thoughts  when  the  go-to  stopped  at  their  station  and  she  walked  on 
candystick  legs  to  their  burrow  and  announced  herself  to  their  doorbot. 

“Valun.”  Silmien  flung  the  door  open.  “I  can’t  believe  . . .”  His  nostrils 
flared  as  he  took  in  her  scent.  “What  have  you  done?” 

“Come  home  for  the  holidays.”  She  was  trying  for  a light  touch,  but  when 
she  stepped  into  the  burrow,  her  body  betrayed  her  and  she  stumbled.  Like 
crunching  through  a skim  of  ice,  except  that  ice  seemed  to  have  formed  in  her 
head  too.  When  Silmien  caught  her,  she  slumped  into  his  arms.  She  knew 
she  ought  to  be  embarrassed  for  losing  control.  But  not  now — tomorrow, 
maybe.  Felt  good  not  to  be  standing  on  her  own. 

“Tevul!”  Silmien  shouted.  “Mam!” 

They  carried  her  to  the  nursery  and  laid  her  on  Mam’s  settle.  The  ice  in  her 
head  cracked  and  began  to  melt.  Something  different  about  the  nursery,  but 
she  couldn’t  pick  it  out  at  first.  The  water  rug  still  brimmed,  its  damp  breath 
filling  the  room.  Lovestory  next  to  Mam’s  settle.  Wedding  picture  above  the 
pool:  Mam  and  Valun  and  Silmien.  The  tell  murmured  in  its  familiar  corner. 
Then  Valun  realized  the  obvious.  No  toys,  no  lines  of  ants  marching  up  the 
walls,  no  miniature  settle  in  the  corner.  As  she  had  expected,  the  scrap  was 
home  from  the  gardens  for  the  lunar  eclipse,  but  she  was  a visitor  now  and 
would  certainly  not  be  sta3dng  in  the  nursery.  She  was  probably  sleeping  in 
Valun’s  settle,  next  to  Silmien.  And  where  would  Valun  sleep  that  night? 

She  shivered  and  saw  her  whole  family  gathered  around  her,  as  if  she  had 
just  fallen  out  of  a tree.  Valun  giggled.  That  seemed  to  fluster  them  even 
more.  “Tevul.”  She  nodded  at  the  scrap.  “Sweet  name.  Fills  the  tongue.” 

Tevul  stared  as  if  she  thought  her  mother  was  insane. 


40 


James  Patrick  Kelly 


Asimov's 


“I’m  sorry  I wasn’t  at  your  naming,”  Valun  said.  “Life  in  the  gardens  agrees 
with  you?” 

“It’s  all  right.” 

“You’re  learning  a lot?  Making  new  friends?” 

“What  do  you  want?”  said  Silmien.  ‘What  has  happened?” 

“Valun,  did  they  do  this  to  you?”  said  Mam.  ‘The  aliens?” 

“What?”  said  Tevul.  “Someone  tell  me  what’s  going  on.” 

“She’s  having  the  baby,”  said  Silmien.  “Smell  it!” 

“She  can’t  be.”  Tevul  looked  from  Silmien  to  Mam  and  finally  at  Valun. 
“We  just  learned  that  in  biology.  You  have  to  be  exposed  to  all  Mam’s 
pheromones  in  order  to  bring  an  embryo  out  of  latency.  You’re  still  supposed 
to  be  in  diapause!” 

“This  is  their  work,”  Mam  said. 

Choosing  what  to  tell  them  was  the  hardest  thing  Valun  had  ever  done. 
She  didn’t  explain  how  she  had  bed  about  being  invited  to  hve  with  the  hu- 
mans. She  had  simply  gotten  tired  of  waiting  and  had  gone  to  them  on  her 
own.  It  txumed  out  that  was  the  only  way  to  gain  access.  The  humans  never 
actually  invited  anyone',  all  the  outs  in  Pelotto  were  self-selected.  Self-con- 
demned. Nor  could  she  teU  them  about  the  longevity  treatments,  the  first  re- 
ward for  those  who  sought  human  knowledge.  The  problem  was  that  preg- 
nant mothers  could  not  be  rejuvenated,  even  if  their  embryos  were  latent. 
She  said  nothing  of  how  the  humans  had  offered  to  remove  the  embryo  from 
her  womb,  and  how  she  had  almost  left  Pelotto  then.  'That  was  too  much  sto- 
ry; her  time  was  getting  short.  She  could  feel  her  womb  knotting  again. 

“By  the  end  of  the  rainy  season,”  she  said,  “I  started  to  worry  that  some 
other  family’s  pheromones  might  be  similar  enough  to  yours  to  trigger  a 
quickening.  But  by  then,  the  scrap  had  already  left  for  the  gardens.” 

“I’m  Tevul,”  said  the  scrap.  “You  can  say  my  name.” 

“So  I had  already  missed  the  weaning,”  Valun  continued,  “and  the  chance 
to  share  scents  with  all  of  you.  'The  humans  told  me  that  they  could  end  dia- 
pause artificially,  so  I could  control  when  I had  the  baby.  I was  sure  that  you 
all  stiU  wanted  him,  so  I agreed.  And  here  I am.  I timed  him  for  the  eclipse  so 
that  we  could  all,  as  a family,  I mean  . . .”  There  was  a sudden,  vast,  and  in- 
evitable loosening  inside  of  her,  and  once  again  she  felt  her  body  slipping 
from  her  control.  Something  trickling,  tickhng  through  her  birth  canal. 

“You  should  have  told  us.”  Silmien’s  scent  was  bitter  as  a nut.  “Why  did 
this  have  to  be  a surprise?” 

“Because  she  isn’t  staying,”  said  Mam.  “You  want  to  go  back  to  the  aliens, 
isn’t  that  it?  Your  humans."  She  made  it  sound  like  a curse.  “Who  are  you 
having  this  baby  for,  us  or  yourself?” 

“Mam,  I . . .”  Valun  pumped  her  knees  together  convulsively,  then  spread 
them  apart  wide.  ‘The  baby  . . .”  She  kneaded  her  belly.  “Help,  Silmien!” 

Silmien  and  Tevul  ralhed  to  her.  No  question  that  she  could  feel  the  baby 
now,  wriggling,  pulling  himself  into  her  vagina  with  his  ridiculous  little 
arms.  It  occurred  to  her  that  at  this  moment  in  time  she  had  family  inside 
and  out.  What  odd  thoughts  she  was  having  tonight!  She  giggled  again. 
The  scrap  was  licking  her  face  and  sobbing,  “Ma-ma-zna.  Oh,  ma!”  Valun 
could  feel  Silmien’s  hands  on  her  vulva,  delicately  opening  her  as  he  had 
opened  her  just  once  before,  controlling  her  as  only  a father  should,  fingers 
basketed  to  catch  the  baby.  She  had  forgotten  how  much  pleasure  there 
was  in  giving  birth,  ecstasy  of  mind  and  body  to  smell  hot,  wet  life  scrab- 
bling toward  the  world.  “Oh,"  she  said,  as  the  final  dribble  of  birth  waters 


Lovestory 


41 


June  1998 


leaked  out  of  her,  and  Silmien  held  the  baby  high,  offering  it  to  the  moons. 
“Oh.” 

Silmien  brought  the  baby  down  so  that  she  and  Tevul  could  see.  He  was 
just  four  centimeters  long  and  almost  lost  in  the  palm  of  his  proud  father’s 
hand. 

“He’s  so  tiny,  so  pink,”  said  Tevul.  “Where  are  his  eyes?” 

“They’ll  grow.”  Silmien’s  voice  was  husky.  He  brought  the  baby  to  his  face 
and  cleaned  him  gently  with  the  tip  of  his  tongue.  The  baby’s  mouth  opened 
and  closed.  The  arms  wriggled  uselessly. 

“Stop.”  The  harshness  of  Mam’s  voice  startled  Valun.  “What  are  you  do- 
ing?” 

“Washing  the  baby,”  said  Silmien. 

“There  is  no  baby.” 

Valun  propped  herself  on  an  elbow,  her  head  savagely  cleared  of  the  moist 
joy  of  birth.  Mam’s  scent  was  like  a hook  up  her  nose;  Valun  had  never 
smelled  anyone  so  angry. 

“Here.”  Silmien  offered  it  to  her.  “See  it.” 

“A  baby  has  a mother"  said  Mam.  “There  is  no  mother  here,  only  a father. 
This  is  an  experiment  by  the  humans.  Take  it  back  to  them.  Tell  them  that  it 
has  failed.” 

“Mam,  no.  Mam!”  said  Tevul.  “He  can  only  live  outside  a few  minutes.  He 
has  to  start  crawling  to  your  pouch  now.  Look,  he’s  already  shivering.” 

“Mam,”  said  Silmien.  “Our  baby  will  die.” 

‘Then  put  it  on  her.”  Main  turned  contemptuously  to  Valun.  “Let  her  open 
her  pouch.  Let  her  love  it.” 

“I  have  no  pouch.  Mam,”  said  Valun.  “Only  you  can  take  care  of  him.”  She 
could  see  that  the  baby  was  distressed.  “Please,  tell  me  what  you  want.”  He 
curled  into  a ball  and  unrolled  with  a spasm.  “Mam,  I’ll  do  an^hing!”  What- 
ever crumb  of  brain  the  baby  had  must  have  registered  that  something  was 
wrong.  He  should  already  be  threading  through  his  Mam’s  fur,  not  still  flail- 
ing across  his  father’s  hand. 

“I  have  nothing  to  say  to  an  out,”  said  Mam.  “I  wQl  talk  to  its  mother.  Does 
anyone  know  where  she  is?” 

“There’s  no  time  for  this,”  said  Silmien. 

“What  do  you  want  from  me,  Totta?”  Valun  could  tell  that  it  had  been  a 
long  time  since  anyone  had  used  Mam’s  name.  “I’m  Valun.  The  mother.” 

Mam’s  eyes  narrowed.  “I  want  you  to  care  about  someone  else  other  than 
yourself,”  she  said.  “I  want  your  story  to  be  a lovestory,  Valun.” 

Valun  struggled  up  off  the  settle.  The  world  spun  crazily  for  a few  seconds, 
but  she  got  it  under  control.  She  cupped  her  hands  and  extended  them  to 
Silmien.  “Give  him  to  me.” 

He  brought  his  hands  on  top  others  and  opened  them.  Silmien  was  sobbing 
as  the  baby  slid  onto  her  palm.  Valun  had  never  held  a baby  before.  It 
weighed  less  than  a berry  and  yet  it  was  as  heavy  a burden  as  she  had  ever 
carried.  ‘Will  you  take  my  place,  Totta?”  She  nodded  at  the  settle. 

Mam  hesitated  for  a moment,  but  then  stretched  out,  facing  Valun.  She 
kept  her  legs  closed,  however,  and  clutched  her  knees  to  her  chest  to  cover 
her  pouch.  Valun  held  the  baby  just  above  her. 

‘Totta,  Silmien,  Tevul,  I will  stay  with  you  and  be  this  one’s  mother.”  Val- 
un astonished  herself.  In  just  one  season  the  humans  had  taught  her  more 
about  her  own  biology  than  she  had  learned  in  a lifetime  of  study.  How  could 
she  turn  away  from  that  knowledge?  “I’ll  be  here  to  give  him  his  name,”  she 

James  Potrick  Kelly 


42 


Asimov's 


continued,  “and  I won’t  leave  until  he  has  come  out  of  the  gardens  with  his 
own  family.  I will  do  this  for  the  love  of  him  and  against  my  best  interests. 
But  I will  not  sleep  with  you,  Silmien,  and  there  will  be  no  mam  baby  from 
this  family.  No  more  babies  at  all.  I can’t  be  what  you  want,  and  you  must  all 
accept  that.  When  Tevul  and  this  scrap  are  grown  up,  I will  go  back  to  Pelot- 
to  again  and  study  with  the  humans.  I hope  it  won’t  be  too  late.  Until  then,  I 
will  study  patience.” 

Mam  did  not  unbend.  “I  heard  many  words,  but  hardly  anything  of  love. 
What  kind  of  mother  are  you?” 

The  baby  was  on  the  move  again,  scrambling  up  the  side  of  Valun’s  cupped 
hands.  “I  will  love  this  baby  because  I have  given  up  so  much  for  him,”  she 
said.  “That  is  the  truth,  by  my  name.” 

“It’s  not  a happy  ending.”  Mam  was  still  not  convinced. 

“Totta,”  said  Silmien,  “this  is  not  a story.” 

‘Mam.”  Valun  tilted  her  hands  to  show  her  the  baby’s  blunt  head.  “Some- 
one’s hungry.” 

Mam  closed  her  eyes.  Her  face  was  hard  with  grief  as  she  opened  her  legs. 
Valun  laid  her  hands  on  Mam’s  belly  and  let  the  baby  shp  through  her  fin- 
gers. He  landed  on  his  back  but  fhpped  himself  immediately.  Driven  by  in- 
stinct, guided  by  scent,  he  crawled  unerringly  for  the  pouch.  With  each  hero- 
ic wriggle  forward  that  the  baby  took.  Mam’s  face  softened.  When  she  opened 
her  eyes  again,  they  were  bright  as  stars.  Valun  tried  to  imagine  herself  as  a 
mam.  A difference  in  her  family’s  birth  order  and  it  could  have  been. 

Valun  could  smell  the  buttery  scent  of  relief  melting  from  Silmien  and  Te- 
vul. And  once  the  baby  had  found  the  nipple.  Mam’s  nursing  bliss  filled  Val- 
un’s nose  like  spilled  perfume.  All  these  happy  smells  made  Valun  a httle  ill. 
This  had  certainly  not  turned  out  the  way  she  had  wanted.  She  wondered 
what  fool  had  made  all  those  promises.  How  could  Valun  keep  them? 

How  could  she  not? 

‘Ma-ma-ma.^’  Tevul  hugged  Valun,  just  like  she  used  to,  but  then  she  was 
still  a tween  and  had  so  much  to  learn  about  being  a mother.  • 


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Lovestory 


43 


CHECKLIST 


How  many  arms  are  best? 

I pondered.  How  many  arms  does  a 
modern  man  need? 

ARMS;  ? the  form  inquired. 

Six  seemed  wise;  a click. 

Another  click  for  neural  implants  to 
Drive  them. 

What  SKIN  COLOR;  should  I choose? 

A question  shackled  with  symbolism 
Rich  in  cultural  significance. 

My  ancestors  painted  themselves  blue 

from  head  to  toe 

blue 

When  they  faced  momentous  possibility; 
War 

and  death. 


I scrolled  SELECTION  to 
OTHER. 

Inserted  WOAD  BLUE. 


INSIGNIA:  ? it  asked  next,  HERALDRY  ? 

One  holo-icon  in  the  palm  of  each  hand 
A thunderbolt,  for  the  weather  lately  tamed 
A flame,  for  fusion  harnessed  and  made  slave 
A shield,  to  note  our  meteor  defense 
A circle  of  beads,  as  symbol  of  our  endless  string  of  days 
A Khadga  mace,  for  the  power  true  self-knowledge  gave 
And  finally, 

A sword,  to  mark  the  division  from  error, 
from  Aristotle's  broken,  insufficient  tool; 

My  hands  a celebration  of  the  March  of  Man; 

of  Homo  sapiens  autotransfigurans.  wBBPHi 

My  first  day  out  - 

sensations  still  deliciously  new, 

Scars  healed, 

Drinking  th6  kurdique  on  the  Boulevard  St-Michel 
A couple,  passing,  frankly  admiring 
My  new  aspect  and  attributes. 

Are  we  not  become  gods?  / 

She  asked  him.  ^ 

Are  we  not  become  gods?  / 


by  Tlmons  Esaias 


M.  Shayne  Bell 


Our  last  tale  from  M.  Shayne  Bell, 

"Mrs.  Lincoln's  China"  (July  1 994),  was  a finalist  for  the 
1995  Hugo  award.  His  beautiful  new  story  evokes  the 
African  continent  of  H.  Rider  Haggard  and  other 
nineteenth-century  authors.  A continent  that  was  so 
mysterious  and  romantic  to  the  European  explorer  that 
he  would  not  be  surprised  to  find  . . . 


PP  I I hat  do  you  make  of  this  book,  Kevin?”  Francois  Brissot  asked  me 
lal  one  evening  in  the  National  Archives  of  Niger.  He  handed  me  a 
yU  book  bound  in  black  leather,  dusted  clean.  I opened  it  slowly,  in  the 
■ 1 middle,  but  it  still  crackled.  The  pages  were  brittle  and  crumbling 
around  the  edges.  It  was  evidently  a journal,  written  in  black  ink,  the  last 
half  of  the  book’s  pages  blank.  I tried  to  read  some  of  the  words  in  the  dim 
light.  We  hadn’t  yet  turned  on  the  one  light  bulb  Brissot  allows  us  after 
dark — the  electricity  costs  the  archives  too  much,  and  he  has  to  conserve. 
Though  I sat  by  a window,  the  sun  had  nearly  set  and  the  hght  was  almost 
gone.  It  was  difficult  to  read. 

“It’s  in  English,”  I said  finally,  having  made  out  a few  words. 

Brissot  laughed  and  walked  off.  Of  course  the  book  was  in  English.  Brissot 
hands  me  everything  written  in  English.  I go  there  to  help  him  recatalog  the 
holdings  of  his  archives,  as  he  thinks  of  them,  left  in  chaos  after  the  Nigerian 
withdrawal  from  Niamey  at  the  end  of  the  Water  War.  “I  am  too  old  to  find 
patience  for  your  Enghsh,”  Brissot  had  once  told  me.  He  reads  English,  but 
slowly.  Since  English  is  my  first  language,  I can  quickly  teU  what  a document 
is,  who  had  written  it  and  why,  and  mark  it  for  future  fihng.  I never  expect- 
ed to  make  it  through  the  archive’s  English-language  holdings  that  summer. 
Brissot  does  not  expect  to  finish  sorting  out  the  mess  the  Nigerians  had  left 
him  in  what  remains  of  his  life. 

I set  the  journal  on  the  table  in  front  of  me  and  carefuUy  opened  the  cover. 


46 


Asimov's 


The  first  page  was  blank,  but  the  second  was  signed  Robert  Adams  and  dat- 
ed 23  May  181 7,  Agadez.  It  was  the  journal  of  an  Englishman,  of  course.  Eng- 
lish men  and  women  seemed  to  have  walked  everywhere  in  the  world,  curi- 
ous about  everything,  recording  the  tiniest  details  of  their  journeys  in  the 
remarkable  journals  that  I,  at  least,  still  love  to  read.  I hadn’t  reahzed  that  a 
European  had  made  it  to  Agadez  that  early.  Brissot  keeps  a list  of  aU  known 
European  explorers  in  Niger  and  their  writings  in  the  hopes  of  collecting,  if 
not  the  primary  documents  themselves,  at  least  copies  of  the  journals  and  let- 
ters. I looked  around  for  Brissot  to  ask  him  what  he  knew  about  Robert 
Adams,  but  Brissot  was  nowhere  in  sight.  I checked  the  encyclopedias,  but 
found  no  mention  of  a West  African  explorer  named  Adams,  nor  was  he  on 
Brissot’s  hst. 

There  is  a table  and  chairs  by  the  encyclopedias,  under  the  one  light  bulb. 
I tiu-ned  it  on  and  sat  there  to  read.  The  journal  was  evidently  not  the  first 
Adams  had  kept,  since  the  narrative  begins  in  medias  res.  What  follows  are 
his  words. 


23  May  181 7,  Agadez,  in  the  Lands  of  the  Tuareg 

Abdullah  and  I breakfasted  on  figs  and  goat’s  milk  cheese  and  took  leave  of 
our  host  before  sunrise,  but  the  gatekeeper  again  would  not  let  us  leave  the 
city  as  we  had  been  promised.  I stood  at  the  gate  with  the  few  belongings  left 
me — principally  these  journals  and  my  compass — packed  in  bags  tied  on  the 
donkey  the  Sultan  had  sent  us,  the  faithful  Abdullah  at  my  side,  he  as  anx- 
ious to  depart  Agadez  after  our  two-month  detainment  as  I. 

I argued  with  the  gatekeeper,  using  the  little  Tamasheq  I can  now  muster, 
since  that  is  what  he  spoke  to  us.  I demanded  to  see  his  orders,  but  of  course 
he  produced  none  and  began  to  threaten  and  curse  me.  Abdullah  also  spoke 
with  the  man,  but  to  no  avail.  He  would  not  open  the  gates;  he  insisted  he 
had  orders  against  it;  so  I turned  the  donkey,  led  it  behind  me,  and  slowly 
walked  with  Abdullah  back  to  the  house  that  had  been  our  prison  these  past 
two  months. 

Our  host,  Jubal  Ibn  Faleiha,  stood  in  the  street  outside  the  gate  to  his 
courtyard,  talking  with  great  happiness  and  animation  to  two  other  Mussul- 
men  all  dressed  in  similar  white  cotton  robes,  but  when  he  saw  me  ap- 
proaching him  again  the  happiness  left  his  face,  though  he  greeted  me  and 
said:  “Six  times  have  I blessed  you  in  the  name  of  Allah,  Robert  Adams,  and 
watched  you  leave  my  home  to  start  your  journey  back  to  the  land  of  the 
Christians,  and  six  times  have  I watched  you  return  to  me.  Allah  be  praised.” 

It  occurred  to  me  to  ask  him  not  to  pray  over  us  the  next  time  we  were  told 
we  could  leave  Agadez,  to  ask  him  to  let  my  prayers  be  the  only  ones  offered, 
but  I remembered  that  Abdullah  always  prayed  to  the  same  Allah  as  Ibn 
Faleiha,  so  I said  nothing  since  in  any  case  prayers  of  thanks  to  Allah  were 
certain  to  be  offered  upon  the  slightest  hope  of  word  that  we  could  leave. 

At  noon  we  learned  the  reason  for  our  stillborn  departure.  The  Sultan  sent 
a messenger  who  asked  for  me,  and  when  I was  called  into  the  courtyard  he 
bowed  many  times  and  told  me  the  Sultan  requested  my  presence  at  dinner 
that  night.  I told  the  messenger  I would  do  as  the  Sultan  wished  and  attend 
his  dinner.  After  the  messenger  left,  I begged  water  to  wash  in  from  a serv- 
ing girl  of  Ibn  Faleiha.  She  pretended  not  to  be  able  to  understand  what  I 


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47 


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wanted,  though  for  the  past  two  months  I had  spoken  with  her  in  Arabic, 
asking  her  for  water  and  food. 

I went  through  the  house  asking  each  person  I met  for  water  and  finally, 
back  in  the  courtyard,  I met  Ibn  Faleiha  himself  and  asked  him  for  water.  He 
appeared  surprised  and  put  upon  by  my  request,  though  it  must  have  been 
he  who  had  ordered  his  servants  not  to  attend  to  my  needs.  I felt  uncomfort- 
able confronting  him  as  I was  forced  to  do,  knowing  that  our  relations  had  be- 
come strained,  but  the  Sultan  had  ordered  me  to  stay  in  his  home — a pun- 
ishment, Abdullah  told  me,  for  Ibn  Faleiha  having  advised  the  Sultan 
privately  against  one  of  his  marriages,  a marriage  the  Sultan  had  been  de- 
termined to  consummate,  and  which  he  had,  despite  his  subject’s  well-mean- 
ing, if  Ul-conceived,  advice.  History  teaches  us  again  and  again  how  unwise 
it  is  to  stand  between  one’s  sovereign  and  a woman. 

I tried  once  more  to  speak  with  Ibn  Faleiha  about  the  cost  of  my  stay  and  told 
him  that  if  we  were  in  my  own  land  I would  have  had  the  means  to  pay  him  for 
his  hospitality,  but  that  I had  been  robbed,  held  against  my  wiU,  and  ordered 
into  his  home.  Indeed,  if  regular  commerce  existed  between  England  and  this 
land  I would  have  sent  him  payment,  but  that  was  impossible.  I again  offered 
to  perform  whatever  service  he  might  ask  of  me  in  his  house,  but  he  appeared 
shamed  by  my  words  and,  remembering  his  duties  as  host,  ordered  that  I be 
given  water,  which  I was  shortly,  in  a tiny  jug,  with  which  I made  do. 

After  washing,  I dressed  in  my  worn  trousers,  shirt,  and  jacket  and  in  the 
early  evening  walked  to  the  Sultan’s  palace  and  was  admitted  and  taken  to  a 
room  in  which  the  Sultan  sat  with  three  bearded  advisors,  one  of  whom  hand- 
ed me  paper,  pen,  and  ink  and  asked  me  to  draw  a map  of  the  streets  of  Lon- 
don, not  forgetting  to  mark  the  principal  buildings,  the  palaces,  the  walls  and 
fortifications,  where  they  might  stand.  I began  my  task  by  drawing  in  the 
parks,  which  landmarks  I use  to  orient  myself  in  London,  but  the  advisors 
stopped  me  to  ask  the  purpose  of  the  parks.  They  would  not  beheve  that  they 
exist  for  beauty’s  sake,  to  rest  human  eyes  from  the  sight  of  stone,  glass,  eind 
metal.  They  determined  amongst  themselves  that  the  parks  were  maintained 
against  a time  of  siege  when  the  forests  in  them  coidd  be  cut  down  for  wood.  I 
told  them  there  was  no  wall  around  London,  that  the  city  is  too  vast  for  a wall, 
but  they  would  not  beheve  that  any  city  could  be  greater  in  size  or  fortification 
than  their  own  Agadez  nor  that  the  royal  Enghsh  capital  would  be  unwaUed.  I, 
not  wanting  to  insult  them  or  try  their  patience,  did  not  tell  them  that  Agadez, 
with  or  without  its  wall,  could  fit  comfortably  inside  the  limits  of  Hyde  Park. 

For  two  hours  they  questioned  me  on  the  particulars  of  London,  such  as 
the  location  of  the  King’s  Palace  and  the  size  of  it,  which  again  they  would 
not  believe,  often  asking  me  the  same  or  similar  questions  a second  or  third 
time,  as  if  to  check  the  truth  of  my  reports,  to  discover  whether  I varied  in  my 
telling.  It  began  to  seem  as  if  they  were  gathering  information  from  me  with 
which  to  prepare  an  invasion  of  England,  and  despite  my  situation  the  entire 
exercise  amused  me  greatly.  I held  back  nothing  and  told  the  Sultan  stories 
of  the  great  buildings  of  London,  of  the  ships  docking  there  from  around  the 
world,  and  of  the  vast  seas  over  which  those  ships  had  traveled.  My  stories 
amused  the  Sultan  in  turn,  and  he  laughed  many  times,  though  his  advisors 
regarded  me  gravely.  When  they  were  satisfied  with  my  stories,  or  tired  of 
them,  one  of  the  advisors  carefully  rolled  up  my  map  of  London  and  tied  it 
with  leather  straps.  They  all  looked  at  me  as  if  I had  given  them  great  and 
secret  knowledge.  I laughed  inside  myself  to  think  that  in  their  hearts  they 
might  hope  one  day  to  sack  London,  which  suddenly,  I realized,  was  the  reason 


48 


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Asimov's 


for  their  keeping  me  in  Agadez:  they  feared  the  intimate  knowledge  of  this  city 
and  their  lands  that  I would  carry  out  with  me  and  the  treacherous  uses  to 
which  such  knowledge  might  be  put,  knowledge  no  European — no  Christian — 
before  me  had  ever  had.  I began  to  wonder  whether  I would  ever  leave  Agadez 
alive  and  thought  that,  to  preserve  my  life  against  a time  when  I might  es- 
cape, 1 should  give  them  hints  of  further  knowledge  they  might  obtain  from 
me,  never  imagining  that  they  could  put  to  practical  use  anything  I might  say. 
I began  to  talk  of  the  seaward  approaches  to  London  and  the  course  of  the 
Thames  and  of  that  great  city  across  the  channel,  Paris,  a city  richer  than 
London,  I told  them,  and  from  the  whispers  of  the  advisors  and  the  looks  of 
the  Sultan  I knew  that  I would  not  soon  be  put  to  death  (if  that  were  indeed 
their  plan),  but  would,  more  likely,  enjoy  future  dinners  in  their  company. 

The  hour  being  late,  and  all  of  us  quite  hungry,  the  Sultan  clapped  his 
hands  and  servants  immediately  brought  in  food  and  drink.  The  dinner  was 
unremarkable:  mujadara,  a roast  goat,  water,  coffee.  But  the  food  encouraged 
the  Sultan  in  his  native  good  humor  and  in  his,  I had  often  hoped,  sincere 
friendliness  toward  me.  He  asked  me  to  talk  of  the  Thames  or  of  Paris,  but  I, 
continuing  with  my  new  plan,  talked  only  of  the  streets  in  London  that  bor- 
dered the  Thames,  and  of  the  bridges  over  it,  not  of  the  course  of  the  river  it- 
self below  or  above  London.  The  Sultan  laughed  at  my  descriptions  of  Lon- 
don’s crowded  streets  and  of  the  noise  of  the  wagons  at  night,  though  he 
thought  the  making  of  such  noise  when  men  should  be  sleeping  uncivilized. 
“But  perhaps  you  Christians  do  not  sleep  at  night?”  he  asked.  “Or  rather,  you 
do  not  let  your  women  sleep?”  I told  him  that  Christian  women  do  not  let 
their  men  sleep,  and  the  Sultan  laughed. 

But  suddenly  he  stopped  laughing.  He  leaned  toward  me  and  whispered 
that  he  would  show  me  his  wives.  This  sudden  intimacy  and  confidence  sur- 
prised me.  I thought  it  prudent  to  encourage  him  and  told  him  how  honored  I 
would  be.  I imagined  the  Sultan  meant  to  introduce  me  to  his  wives,  that  he 
would  call  them  into  the  room,  but  instead  he  led  me  down  a long,  narrow 
corridor  to  a low  door,  and  beyond  the  door  a black  room.  The  Sultan  prompt- 
ly entered  that  room  and  I followed,  knocking  my  knee  against  a bench, 
which  I sat  on,  and  I saw  before  me  a row  of  three  peepholes.  The  Sultan  was 
looking  through  one  of  them.  It  shocked  me  to  realize  that  he  wanted  me  to 
observe  his  wives  while  they  slept,  but  when  1 looked  through  the  peephole  I 
saw  to  my  further  surprise  that  the  women  in  the  room  beyond  us  were  not 
sleeping,  but  rather  bathing  in  a small,  tiled  pool. 

There  were  three  of  them,  none  particularly  lovely,  though  at  that  late 
hour,  with  their  long  day  ended  and  apparently  unaware  of  our  presence, 
even  the  most  plain  among  them  displayed  a weary,  comely  peace.  I won- 
dered which  had  aroused  Ibn  Faleiha’s  opposition. 

They  splashed  about  their  pool,  and  their  soft  laughter  and  the  sight  of 
them  bathing  by  candlelight  aroused  me,  though  I was  careful  to  hide  my 
feelings.  1 did  not  know  what  reaction  the  Sultan  expected  from  me.  To  ap- 
pear too  interested  in  his  bathing  wives  was  an  obvious  danger:  these  women 
were  above  temptation  if  I valued  my  hfe. 

The  Sultan  seemed  impatient.  He  leaned  over  to  me.  “One  of  my  wives  is 
very  special,”  he  whispered,  “a  kind  of  woman  you  will  have  never  seen  in 
your  Christian  England.” 

“Which  one?”  I whispered  back,  thinking  that  even  the  working  women  of 
my  country  compared  favorably  with  any  of  these,  but  the  Sultan  did  not  re- 
fer to  one  of  the  women  in  the  pool. 


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49 


June  1998 


“She  sits  in  the  doorway  on  the  far  side  of  the  room,  waiting  her  turn  at  the 
water,”  he  said. 

I looked  again  through  the  peephole  and  indeed  saw  a woman  crouched  in 
the  shadows  of  the  doorway,  still  fully  clothed  in  her  veil  and  robes. 

“Watch  her,”  the  Sultan  said. 

I wondered  why  the  woman  the  Sultan  regarded  with  such  esteem  waited 
to  bathe  until  all  had  others  finished,  but  I could  think  of  no  reason  except, 
perhaps,  disease.  The  Sultan  grew  more  and  more  impatient  with  the  time 
his  three  other  wives  took  in  the  pool.  I began  to  think  that  he  would  present- 
ly shout  through  the  peephole  for  them  to  be  gone,  but  he  said  nothing,  and 
presently  they  left.  We  watched  them  wrap  themselves  in  robes  and  leave 
the  room.  Each  of  them,  when  she  passed  the  woman  kneeling  in  the  door- 
way, would  not  approach  her,  but  attempted  to  pass  her  by  with  as  much  dis- 
tance between  them  as  possible.  No  one  spoke  to  her. 

When  the  last  of  the  three  had  hurried  past,  the  woman  in  the  doorway 
stood  and  approached  a bench  situated  on  the  far  side  of  the  pool,  which  she 
faced,  keeping  her  back  to  us,  and  she  began  to  disrobe.  I started  to  feel  our 
voyeurism  perverted,  but  I dared  not  question  the  Sultan’s  scruples,  feeling 
that  I could  not  risk  his  apparent  trust  in  me,  arguably  worth  a great  deal  to- 
ward the  eventual  salvation  of  my  life,  and  of  Abdullah’s.  So  I joined  the  Sul- 
tan in  watching. 

First  off  came  a jeweled  bracelet,  then  the  veil,  reveahng — to  my  astonish- 
ment— fair  skin  and  long  braids  of  blond  hair,  which  she  untied  and  shook 
out  and  which  fell  halfway  between  her  shoulders  and  her  waist,  her  back  be- 
ing exceptionally  long.  The  blond  hair  particularly  surprised  me,  mine  being 
the  only  blond  hair  I had  supposed  to  exist  in  aU  the  regions  of  Africa  I had 
visited.  I wondered  about  the  woman  before  me,  and  her  origins,  as  she  un- 
tied her  robes  and  let  them  fall  about  her  feet.  What  I saw  then  will  remain 
forever  etched  in  my  memory.  A raised  ridge  of  bone  ran  down  her  back 
where  the  spine  would  be.  She  turned  and  stepped  into  the  pool,  holding  her 
arms  out  from  her  to  balance  her  steps,  and  where  her  breasts  should  have 
been  were  two  more  arms,  tiny,  folded  together.  When  her  chest  touched  the 
water  the  second  set  of  arms  opened  to  swirl  the  water  before  her.  Her  mouth 
emitted  a soft  clacking  sound,  and  she  sighed  as  leathery  wings  lifted  up  be- 
hind her,  wings  originally  hidden  in  folds  of  flesh  along  the  bony  spine.  I saw 
then  that  her  lips  were  stiff,  that  the  chin  remained  strangely  immobile 
while  she  made  the  clacking  sounds. 

I looked  away,  horrified,  and  saw  that  the  Sultan  was  watching  me.  “Is  she 
not  fine?”  he  whispered. 

I could  say  nothing  in  reply. 

“Look  at  her,”  he  whispered.  “Certainly  your  kings  in  England  do  not  have 
wives  like  her.” 

I looked  back  through  the  peephole  and  saw  that  the  “woman,”  if  indeed 
that  is  what  she  were,  was  preening  her  wings  with  a long  tongue  distended 
from  her  immobile  mouth,  a tongue  that  reminded  me  at  once  of  the  pro- 
boscis of  butterflies. 

“You  are  correct,  Sultan,”  I whispered.  “In  England  there  are  no  women 
like  her.” 

We  were  quiet  for  a time,  watching.  I felt  certain  it  was  the  Sultan’s  marriage 
to  this  creature  that  Ibn  Faleiha  had  opposed.  ‘Where  is  she  from?”  I asked. 

The  Sultan  drew  away  from  me  at  once,  and  I realized  I had  asked  some- 
thing amiss. 


50 


M.  Shayne  Bell 


Asimov's 


“Come,”  he  said.  “I  must  keep  my  little  secrets,  too.” 

He  motioned  me  out  of  the  room  and  softly  closed  the  door  behind  us.  I was 
glad  to  be  spared  another  sight  of  his  special  wife. 

‘Tou  have  said  little  to  me,  Robert  Adams,  except  to  request  more  infor- 
mation about  my  lands.” 

I understood  then  my  error.  “Ciniosity  brought  me  to  Africa,  that  and  the 
desire  to  learn  more  about  the  world  we  live  in,”  I told  him. 

‘To  what  end  are  you,  a Christian,  curious  about  this  part  of  the  world?” 

I thought  for  a moment  before  replying.  “For  two  reasons,”  I said.  “First,  to 
estabhsh  commerce,  if  possible  and  if  it  seem  profitable,  between  my  country 
and  yours.  The  second  reason  is  entirely  personal:  to  see,  with  my  own  eyes, 
wonders.” 

He  turned  and  conducted  me  quickly  down  the  corridor  to  the  room  where 
we  had  dined  and  pondered  maps  of  my  far-off  homeland.  “You  have  seen  a 
wonder  tonight,”  he  told  me.  We  took  leave  of  one  another,  and  two  of  the 
Sultan’s  armed  soldiers  escorted  me  to  the  street,  where  I was  left  to  walk 
alone  to  the  house  of  Ibn  Faleiha. 

I had  indeed  seen  a wonder,  I realized,  though  I did  not  understand  what  I 
had  seen.  Was  this  winged  creature  some  sort  of  person  no  one  in  Europe  had 
yet  encountered- — except,  perhaps,  in  mythology?  I thought  of  centaurs, 
griffins,  the  chimera.  Had  such  creatures  once  existed  in  Mediterranean  re- 
gions, withdrawing  to  some  hidden  African  country,  now  alhed  with  the  Mus- 
sulmen?  Was  our  mythology  based,  after  all,  on  truth?  This  wife  of  the  Sul- 
tan’s was  not,  however,  a creature  familiar  in  our  mythology,  unless  the 
descriptions  of  one  of  them  had  become  corrupted  in  Europe  after  centuries 
without  contact. 

Whatever  the  case,  the  Sultan  of  Agadez  evidently  regarded  the  creature 
as  sentient,  since  he  had  married  her.  I determined  to  learn  more  about  her 
and  her  kind  before  leaving:  indeed,  I soon  realized  that  such  knowledge 
might  be  crucial  to  the  safety  of  my  own  land,  perhaps  even  to  all  of  Europe. 
'The  Sultan’s  evident  plans  for  sacking  London  were  perhaps  not  the  joke  I 
had  at  first  thought!  Allied  with  an  army  of  winged  soldiers — the  fathers, 
brothers,  husbands,  and  sons  of  creatures  like  she  the  Sultan  had  shown 
me — the  sacking  of  even  the  king  of  England’s  own  palace  might  not  be  far- 
fetched. I cursed  myself  for  the  imprudence  I had  shown  not  only  in  talking 
openly  and  truthfully  about  the  capital  city  of  my  nation,  but  also  in  drawing 
a map  of  it.  I would  mark  it  falsely  in  the  future,  were  the  leather  straps  that 
tied  it  ever  loosened  and  that  map  laid  in  front  of  me  again. 

Such  were  my  thoughts  as  I walked  the  dark  streets  to  Ibn  Faleiha’s.  Af- 
ter I lay  in  bed,  I could  not  stop  thinking  and  find  rest.  I imagined  winged 
armies  descending  on  London  fix)m  out  of  Africa,  carr3ring  fire  and  stones  to 
hurl  down  upon  our  homes,  businesses,  and  ships,  firing  deadly  arrows  from 
so  high  up  that  our  finest  marksmen  could  not  strike  them  in  return,  kid- 
napping our  wives,  sisters,  and  mothers  through  the  windows  of  their  very 
bedrooms  and  flying  off  with  them  to  fates  we  could  only  ponder  with  horror. 


24  May  1817 

I woke  sick  to  my  stomach,  a common  event  for  me  in  Africa,  though  I had 
been  spared  aU  iUness  so  far  in  Agadez.  I could  only  attribute  this  illness  to 
my  gloomy  thoughts  of  the  previous  night;  the  realization  of  my  evident  im- 


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51 


June  1998 


prisonment  and,  perhaps,  mortal  danger;  and  the  shock  of  seeing  a living  crea- 
ture out  of  m5rthology.  Abdullah  cursed  the  Saharan  dews  to  which  I must 
have  been  exposed  during  my  late  night  walk  from  the  Sultan’s  palace  to  Ibn 
Faleiha’s,  but  I had  felt  no  dew.  The  night  had  seemed  hot  and  diy  to  me. 

I found  myself  unable  to  keep  down  food  or  water,  though  I made  repeated 
attempts  knowing,  as  I did,  that  I soon  needed  health  and  strength  if  Abdul- 
lah and  I were  to  escape  from  Agadez,  escape  now  being,  I believed,  our  only 
hope. 

Because  of  my  illness,  I put  off  Ibn  Faleiha’s  lessons  in  written  and  spoken 
Arabic  that  we  had  been  prepared  to  resume.  He  had  never  ceased  being  fas- 
cinated that  a Christian  should  want  to  learn  to  write  and  perfect  the  speak- 
ing of  the  language  of  the  Mussulmen.  I decided,  however,  to  mention  the 
Sultan’s  wife  in  order  to  learn  what  Ibn  Faleiha  knew  of  her  and  her  people. 

“You  have  seen  her?”  he  asked,  his  voice  angry  at  once. 

‘The  Sultan  showed  her  to  me,”  I said. 

“He  captured  her  during  one  of  his  forays  against  brigands.  The  imams 
would  have  put  her  to  death  at  once,  but  the  Sultan  not  only  forbade  it,  he 
married  her,  planning  to  ally  this  land  with  her  inhuman  kind,  though  noth- 
ing has  come  of  that,  Allah  be  praised.” 

But  if  such  an  alliance  were  achieved,  the  military  advantages  seemed  ob- 
vious. Ibn  Faleiha  claimed  to  know  nothing  of  her  origins,  and  he  would 
speak  of  her  no  more. 

In  the  afternoon,  a messenger  again  arrived  from  the  Sultan,  and  I was 
again  summoned  to  the  Sultan’s  dinner.  I sent  word  that  I was  ill,  but  the 
messenger  soon  returned  saying  that  I must  attend  the  dinner,  ill  or  well,  so 
I went.  As  before,  the  Sultan  and  his  three  advisors  met  me  with  paper,  pen, 
and  ink  and  once  again  requested  that  I draw  them  a map  of  London.  “Where 
is  last  night’s  map?”  I asked.  “I  will  add  detail  to  it.” 

“Draw  us  a new  map  of  the  same  places,”  the  Sultan  commanded,  and  I 
had  no  choice  but  to  draw  something.  Their  open  mistrust  alarmed  me. 
Clearly  they  were  asking  me  to  duplicate  last  night’s  map  so  that  they  might 
compare  my  two  efforts.  I could  only  imagine  the  consequences  to  me  if  they 
discovered  major  discrepancies.  “Be  certain  to  draw  the  course  of  the  river 
you  spoke  of  last  night,”  the  Sultan  continued. 

I picked  up  the  pen,  sick  at  heart.  My  choices  then  seemed  simple  and  few: 
betray  my  country  or  incur  the  swift  wrath  of  the  Sultan  of  Agadez.  Betray 
England  I could  never  do,  so  I determined  to  attempt  to  draw  the  Sultan’s  at- 
tention away  from  London.  I quickly  sketched  in  the  parks  and  major  streets, 
as  I had  done  the  previous  night,  then  Buckingham  Palace,  “the  king’s  winter 
residence,”  I said,  as  if  to  myself. 

“Where  is  the  summer?”  an  advisor  immediately  asked. 

“In  the  mountains  of  Wales,”  I lied.  “Our  winters  being  exceptionally  short, 
the  king  moves  his  capital  during  spring,  summer,  and  fall  to — ” There  I 
paused  briefly  to  invent  the  name  of  a nonexistent  city,  “to  Utopia,”  I said, 
the  title  of  Sir  Thomas  More’s  book  being  the  only  name  for  an  imaginary 
capital  that  occurred  to  me. 

‘Tell  us  of  this  Utopia,”  the  Sultan  said. 

And  I did.  When  I drew  the  map  of  it,  I memorized  its  details,  since  I fully 
expected  to  be  asked  to  duplicate  everything,  including  the  two  great  rivers 
that  join  in  the  heart  of  my  fictitious  city,  the  massive  government  buildings, 
the  palaces,  the  parks,  and,  since  my  audience  would  not  believe  that  any 
king  ruled  from  an  unwalled  city,  its  great  wall  and  fortifications. 

I* 

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The  Sultan  and  his  advisors  seemed  extremely  pleased  with  my  stories  and 
maps.  When  they  judged  that  I had  drawn  enough  for  one  night,  an  advisor 
carefully  rolled  the  maps  and  tied  them  with  leather  straps.  Then,  as  before, 
the  Sultan  clapped  his  hands,  and  servants  brought  food:  kouskous,  this 
time;  another  roasted  goat  and — a great  surprise — wine.  The  various  aromas 
nauseated  me,  though  I had  enjoyed  these  same  foods,  if  not  the  heretofore 
unavailable  wine,  on  many  different  occasions  throughout  my  travels  in 
Africa.  I ate  small  portions  slowly,  though  no  one  seemed  to  notice  or  care, 
the  wine  commanding  most  of  the  Sultan’s  and  his  advisors’  attention.  I 
knew  of  the  Mussulman’s  supposed  prohibitions  on  drinking  alcoholic  bever- 
ages, but  every  man  there  drank  freely  and  made  no  excuses  for  the  wine.  I 
certainly  did  not  think  it  prudent  to  question  their  disregard  of  their  faith’s 
scruples. 

The  hour  was  late,  but  we  drank  and  ate,  then  drank  more.  The  Sultan 
and  his  advisors  became  aroused  and  jovial.  “We  shall  have  music  and  danc- 
ing!” the  Sultan  said.  He  clapped  his  hands,  spoke  to  the  eunuch  who  ap- 
proached, and  presently  a flutist  and  drummer  seated  themselves  in  an  al- 
cove and  began  playing  an  exotic,  rhythmic  music.  The  eunuch  hurried  a 
veiled  woman  to  the  arched  doorway.  She  stood  there  reluctantly  and  at- 
tempted to  turn  to  leave,  but  the  eunuch  would  not  let  her.  He  spoke  to  her  in 
low  tones.  I heard  none  of  the  words,  but  he  seemed  to  urge  her  to  an  appar- 
ently unpleasant  duty. 

“Dance!”  the  Sultan  roared.  His  shout  startled  everyone.  The  musicians 
stopped  playing  briefly  and  all  of  us — the  woman  in  the  doorway,  the  eu- 
nuch, the  three  advisors  and  I — stared  at  the  Sultan. 

“She  must  dance!”  he  shouted. 

The  eunuch  said  something  to  the  woman,  who  at  once  straightened  her 
back,  lifted  her  head,  and  for  a moment  stood  tall  and  proud.  Slowly,  she  be- 
gan to  dance. 

She  moved  gracefully  down  the  steps,  then  onto  the  tiled  floor  before  our 
table,  her  hands  and  body  keeping  time  with  the  music.  Once  before  us,  she 
began  to  twirl.  Her  robes  and  veil  lifted  as  she  turned — and  I saw  the  fair 
skin  of  her  hands,  a flash  of  blond  hair. 

I knew  then  who — or  what — danced  for  the  Sultan  of  Agadez  and  his 
guests:  the  woman  from  a lost  mythology.  I felt  as  if  a jug  of  icy  water  had 
been  poured  over  my  head.  I sobered  at  once  and,  shivering,  sat  up  straight 
to  watch  the  twirhng  dervish  before  me. 

It  was  then  that  she  noticed  me,  and  she  was  curious.  She  danced  close  to 
me  when  she  let  her  veil  fall,  and  she  danced  close  to  me  as  she  loosened  the 
ties  of  her  robes.  I studied  her  face  and,  though  it  was  not  a type  of  face  I had 
ever  imagined  existing  on  this  world,  I could  still  read  the  emotions  that 
played  there:  unhappiness,  sorrow,  shame.  I did  not  want  to  see  her  forced  to 
dance  naked.  Even  if  her  people  were  to  become  the  enemies  of  mine,  I did 
not  want  to  see  her  shamed  like  that.  I thought,  in  vain  for  a time,  of  a way  to 
prevent  her  complete  disrobing,  but  nothing  occurred  to  me  better  than  what 
I presently  did:  I began  to  cough,  though  my  false  cough  soon  turned  to  a real, 
and  as  the  real  continued  I shortly  could  not  stop  myself  from  vomiting. 

At  once  the  dancing  stopped,  the  music  stopped,  everyone  stood  but  me. 
Without  a word,  the  Sultan  left  the  room.  The  eunuch  rushed  forward  with 
rags.  I took  one  of  his  rags  and  knelt  to  help  him  clean  the  floor. 

“No!”  he  said,  too  loudly.  “You  are  the  Sultan’s  guest.”  He  tried  to  take  the 
rag  from  my  hands,  but  I would  not  let  him.  I was  responsible  for  the  mess. 


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and  I was  determined  to  help  him  clean  it,  though  it  comforted  me  somehow 
to  find  that  at  least  this  man  still  thought  of  me  as  a guest  here.  One  by  one 
the  advisors  left,  and  when  they  were  gone,  the  musicians  left.  Other  ser- 
vants came  at  once  to  clear  the  table.  The  Sultan’s  wife  stood  not  far  off, 
watching  the  eunuch  and  me,  retying  her  robes.  I had  stopped  her  dance,  but 
I had  not  planned  to  make  such  a mess.  She  crossed  to  the  table,  took  pen 
and  paper  before  the  servants  could  clear  it  away,  and  wrote  on  the  paper, 
which  she  handed  to  me.  Did  I displease  you  that  much?  she  had  written  in 
Arabic. 

It  disturbed  me  to  find  my  actions  misconstrued  in  this  manner.  I crossed 
to  the  table  and  quickly  wrote  in  Arabic  on  the  same  paper,  / saw  your  reluc- 
tance to  dance  and  did  what  I could  to  spare  you  from  proceeding.  I did  not 
mean  to  go  so  far,  and  for  that  I apologize.  I handed  her  the  paper.  After  she 
read  it,  she  stared  at  me  for  a long  time.  Finally  she  handed  the  paper  to  the 
eunuch,  who  also  read  what  we  had  written.  Then  it  was  his  turn  to  stare  for 
a moment.  He  set  the  paper  on  the  table.  “You  are  a man  of  honor,”  he  said. 
He  bowed  to  me  from  where  he  knelt  on  the  floor,  which  embarrassed  me,  so 
I knelt  and  took  up  my  rag  to  continue  cleaning.  The  eunuch  put  his  hands 
on  mine  to  stop  me.  “Let  me  do  this,”  he  said  gently.  After  I stood,  he  said, 
“She  can  hear  and  understand  our  words,  though  she  cannot  speak  them. 
Suleiya,”  he  said.  “You  must  put  on  your  veil.” 

His  words  seemed  to  surprise  her — it  was  as  if  she  were  not  accustomed  to 
the  clothes  she  wore,  though  she  hurried  to  comply.  Soon  the  veil  covered  her 
head  and  hid  her  face  in  shadow.  She  crossed  to  the  table  and  wrote.  Her  jew- 
eled bracelet  tapped  the  table  while  her  hand  moved.  I saw  that  this  bracelet 
was  really  four  separate  copper  bands,  a large  yellow  stone  on  the  bottom, 
nearest  her  hand,  then  a tiny  brilliant  blue  jewel  on  the  second,  small  red 
jewels  on  the  third  and  fourth.  She  handed  me  the  paper.  Where  are  you 
from?  she  had  written. 

“From  a land  called  England,”  I said.  “It  is  far  from  here,  and  very  different 
from  this  place.  Where  are  you  from?”  I asked  in  return,  glad  that  the  Sultan 
were  not  present  so  that  I might  ask  the  question  and  read  her  answer. 

She  looked  at  the  eunuch,  who  looked  back  at  her  but  said  nothing,  then 
she  motioned  for  me  to  follow  her  across  the  room  to  doors  that  opened  onto  a 
balcony.  We  stood  at  the  rail,  where  she  studied  the  night  sky  for  a time.  In- 
numerable stars  blazed  there.  A breeze  off  the  desert  cooled  the  night  air, 
and  I became  mindful  of  the  dews  that  constantly  worry  Abdullah.  I was 
about  to  say  that  for  my  health  I needed  to  return  inside,  when  she  pointed 
northeast  to  something  forty  degrees  above  the  horizon — above  the  Air 
mountains.  I pointed  at  the  mountains,  but  she  pushed  up  my  arm  till  my 
finger  pointed  at  stars. 

That  was  how  she  answered  my  question.  I stood,  wondering,  as  she 
turned  and  walked  back  into  the  room.  I shortly  followed,  but  she  was  gone. 
Only  the  eunuch  remained  in  the  now  almost  dark  room,  clearing  away  the 
last  of  the  dishes.  Most  candles  had  been  extinguished.  “I  do  not  understand,” 
I told  him. 

“Neither  do  I,”  he  said.  He  held  the  paper  we  had  written  on  to  the  flame  of 
a candle.  When  the  fire  had  nearly  reached  his  fingers,  he  dropped  what  re- 
mained of  the  paper  onto  a plate.  Soon  nothing  was  left  of  our  communica- 
tion but  ashes  and  memory.  He  blew  out  the  candle  and  left  with  the  dishes. 
Soldiers  came  to  escort  me  to  the  street,  and  again  I was  left  to  walk  alone  to 
the  house  of  Ibn  Faleiha  in  the  dark  night,  cool  now  in  a desert  breeze.  I but- 

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toned  my  jacket  to  the  neck  to  ward  off  dews,  though  once  in  my  own  room  I 
opened  the  window,  which  also  faced  northeast,  to  look  at  stars  for  a time. 
The  moon  had  not  yet  risen,  but  the  night  was  bright  with  starlight.  What 
had  Suleiya,  for  such  appeared  to  be  her  name,  tried  to  tell  me?  Were  she  and 
her  people  not  something  from  a lost  mythology,  as  I had  imagined,  but  de- 
scended here  from  some  star  or  moon? 

Forty  degrees  above  the  horizon  in  Africa  there  are  many,  many  stars  at 
which  to  point. 


25  May  1817 

I woke  with  a fever  and  other  worse  symptoms  I refrain  from  chronichng. 
Two  of  Ibn  Faleiha’s  serving  girls  were  also  similarly  ill,  and  Ibn  Faleiha 
himself  complained  of  a severe  headache.  Ibn  Faleiha  told  me  that  many  in 
the  city  were  ill. 

After  a failed  attempt  at  breakfast,  I wrote  an  apology  to  the  Sultan  and 
sent  Abdxillah  to  dehver  it.  Though  he  waited  at  the  palace  till  after  midday 
for  a reply,  none  came.  Abdullah  seemed  troubled  after  his  return,  and  I 
asked  him  the  reason. 

“I  heard  men  talking  at  the  mosque  of  thee,  0 my  master,”  he  said. 

“What  did  these  men  say?”  I asked. 

“That  the  illness  in  the  city  is  thy  doing,  that  thou  hast  cursed  Agadez  with 
some  Christian  ailment.” 

“A  curse  that  afflicts  the  man  who  says  it  seems  strange  and  ineffective.” 

“Indeed,”  Abdullah  said.  “But  that  is  not  all.  A mahdi  has  arisen  here.  He 
preaches  in  the  mosque  against  thee,  against  the  Sultan’s  worldly  ways,  and 
against  one  of  the  Sultan’s  wives.” 

“What  does  he  say?” 

“That  thou  and  this  wife  of  the  Sultan’s  are  infidels  and  have  polluted 
Agadez.  Tragedy  will  befall  the  city  unless  the  Sultan  repents  and  cleanses 
it.” 

“What  does  this  mahdi  say  of  the  Sultan’s  wife?”  I asked. 

“That  she  is  a devil  whom  he  has  tamed  for  evil,  that  one  look  of  her  brings 
a curse,  and  two  hard  looks  stop  the  heart.” 

“That  is  nonsense,”  I said.  “I  have  met  the  woman  to  whom  they  must  re- 
fer. She  looks  different  from  other  women,  but  her  glance  does  not  kill.” 

‘T  only  report  what  men  say,”  he  said. 

I stood  and  crossed  to  the  window.  “I  would  leave  here  at  once,  if  the  Sultan 
allowed  it.” 

“And  I would  follow  thee,  for  thou,  though  a Christian,  have  been  good  to 
me.” 

“Thank  you,  Abdullah,”  I said.  After  a time  I asked  him  if  he  thought  we 
were  in  danger. 

“I  may  not  be,”  was  all  he  said. 


26  May  1817 

Ibn  Faleiha  rushed  into  the  courtyard  shortly  after  midday  with  news  of 
carnage  on  the  desert.  A caravan  of  pilgrims  returning  from  the  Hajj  had 
been  overcome  by  brigands  a day’s  ride  from  the  city.  Everything  of  value  had 


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been  stolen,  and  those  not  lying  dead  on  the  sands  were  gone — ^kidnapped  to 
be  sold  into  slavery  in  Egypt  or  the  Sudan.  The  Sultan  had  sent  a troop  to 
track  down  the  brigands  and  rescue  the  enslaved. 

Shortly  we  heard  wailing  in  the  streets,  from  the  relatives  or  friends  of 
those  killed  or  kidnapped,  I was  certain.  I looked  out  my  window  and  saw 
bodies  carried  into  the  city  on  the  backs  of  camels,  donkeys,  and  horses. 
Those  who  mourned  their  dead  followed  them.  When  Ibn  Faleiha  and  Abdul- 
lah returned  from  afternoon  prayer,  both  looked  deeply  concerned. 

“The  mahdi  blames  this  trouble  on  you,”  Ibn  Faleiha  said. 

“And  on  the  Sultan’s  infidel  wife,”  Abdullah  said. 

“Both  are  accused,”  Ibn  Faleiha  said,  in  a quiet  but  angry  voice.  He  stared 
at  me  for  a moment,  then  moved  to  the  window  to  look  out  on  the  street  traf- 
fic. I wondered  if  he  were  prepared  to  believe  the  mahdi’s  lies  against  me.  Ab- 
dullah continued  to  recite  them  and  to  tell  me  how  the  illness  had  spread. 
Even  part  of  the  desert  troop  had  had  to  return  to  Agadez  because  they  were 
so  ill.  Whether  Ibn  Faleiha  beheved  me  responsible  for  such  things  mattered 
little  since  others  believed  them.  My  presence  in  Ibn  Faleiha’s  home  put  him 
and  his  household  in  danger. 

“You  have  offered  to  work  here  in  return  for  my  hospitality,”  Ibn  Faleiha 
said,  turning  away  from  the  window.  “I  ask  you  now  to  work,  Robert  Adams. 
Help  me  devise  ways  to  bar  the  doors  and  windows  of  this  house.” 

Which  thing  we  did.  By  night,  all  of  us  sat  quiet  at  dinner — ^AbduDah,  Ibn 
Faleiha,  his  aged  wife,  even  their  servants,  and  myself — ^behind  barred  doors 
and  windows,  though  we  knew  that  if  the  city  rose  against  us,  we  would  not 
survive. 

“Abdullah  and  I must  escape  from  Agadez,”  I told  Ibn  Faleiha,  after  the 
servants  had  cleared  the  table  and  only  he,  Abdullah,  and  I remained  in  the 
room.  “My  life  is  forfeit  if  I stay,  as  is  perhaps  Abdullah’s  since  he  guided  me 
here.  My  presence,  moreover,  puts  you  and  your  house  in  danger.  But  Abdul- 
lah and  I need  help.  We  need  horses.” 

I thought  perhaps  he  might  equip  us  for  escape  so  he  might  at  last  be  rid  of 
us  and  the  danger  of  our  presence. 

‘Tou  do  not  understand,”  Ibn  Faleiha  said.  “All  our  lives  are  forfeit  in 
Agadez.  The  mahdi  preaches  that  contagion  spreads  from  my  home.  Who, 
therefore,  is  clean  within  it?” 

I understood  then  how  the  Sultan  had  used  me  to  ruin  Ibn  Faleiha  and  exact 
revenge  for  privately  dehvered,  if  unasked  for,  advice.  Perhaps  the  Sultan  had 
not  seen  the  coming  of  a mahdi  and  his  preachings  against  me,  but  he  must 
have  known  how  being  forced  to  harbor  an  infidel  Christian,  as  they  thought 
of  me,  for  as  long  as  I had  been  under  this  roof,  would  damage  Ibn  Faleiha’s 
reputation  and  make  his  business,  his  dealings,  even  his  word,  suspect. 

A servant  placed  a bowl  of  hot  water  on  the  table.  Ibn  Faleiha  stood  to 
wash  his  hands,  preparing  to  retire  for  the  night.  “You  have  brought  hard- 
ship to  my  house,”  Ibn  Faleiha  said  to  me,  ‘but  it  was  not  your  intent;  more- 
over, you  have  treated  me  and  the  customs  of  this  house  honestly  and  with 
respect.  My  observations  of  you  over  these  months  prevent  me  from  accept- 
ing the  mahdi’s  preachings  against  you,  or  my  eyes  are  blind  and  my  heart 
incapable  of  judging  truly.  If  Allah  is  cursing  this  city,  and  blame  for  it  to  be 
assigned,  the  Sultan  should  bear  it,  he  who  brought  an  unholy  woman  into 
this  city  to  marry  and  cavort  with,  not  you  who  traveled  here  to  learn  and  es- 
tablish commerce;  therefore,  I tell  you  this:  my  son,  who  lives  in  Bilma,  leads 
a caravan  that  should  arrive  here  within  days.  My  wife  and  I and  all  in  this 

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household  will  escape  with  him  out  of  this  sultanate  to  Bilma.  You  and  your 
servant  may  come  with  us,  to  save  your  lives,  but  you  must  leave  Bilma 
quickly  and  be  gone  from  us  forever.” 

Abdullah  fell  at  once  to  his  knees,  thanking  Ibn  Faleiha  profusely,  then  he 
turned  in  the  direction  of  Mecca  to  offer  prayers  of  thanks.  I stood  and  bowed 
to  Ibn  Faleiha,  thanked  him  and  held  out  my  hand.  I had  to  explain  our  cus- 
tom of  shaking  hands,  but  after  I did,  Ibn  Faleiha  shook  hands  with  me.  I 
trusted  him  then.  I did  not  believe  he  would  have  shaken  my  hand  had  he  be- 
lieved me  responsible  for  the  disease  spreading  through  Agadez. 

Abdullah  and  I will  sleep  as  if  saved. 


27  May  1817 

In  the  late  afternoon,  the  Sultan  sent  a messenger  to  inquire  after  my 
health,  which  was  greatly  improved.  I had  eaten  that  morning  and  kept 
down  the  food  and  water.  My  fever  had  broken  and,  though  weak,  I could 
walk.  I sent  the  messenger  away  with  that  report.  Shortly  he  returned  to  bid 
me  to  the  Sultan’s  palace  for  dinner,  which  invitation  I accepted.  The  eunuch 
met  me  at  the  doors  when  I arrived,  and  he  escorted  me  down  a different 
hallway  to  a room  I had  never  seen,  where  he  closed  the  door.  ‘Tou  must  help 
us,”  he  said. 

The  veiled  figure  of  a woman  rose  from  a chair  near  the  window.  She  held 
out  a piece  of  paper  to  me.  I took  it  and  read  her  words.  Please  help  me  leave 
this  city,  she  had  written.  My  people  can  protect  us,  if  you  take  me  to  them. 

“The  mahdi  will  have  her  killed  before  he  is  through,  and  you,  too,”  the  eu- 
nuch said.  “I  have  seen  this  sort  of  thing  happen  before,  as  it  did  some  years 
past  when  a different  mahdi  urged  the  Hausa  driven  from  this  city,  and 
many  Hausa  killed  or  enslaved.” 

“Where  are  your  people?”  I asked  Suleiya. 

She  took  the  paper,  ^pped  a pen  in  the  ink  bottle  on  the  table,  and  wrote: 
They  camp  in  mountains  northeast  of  here. 

“How  many?”  I asked. 

Eighteen,  she  wrote. 

That’s  all!  I thought.  Clearly  she  and  her  people  posed  a minimal  threat  to 
England  and  Europe.  I now  had  answer  to  that  question,  though  immediate- 
ly it  occurred  to  me  that  her  people  might  be  nomadic,  flying  in  small  groups 
from  aerie  to  aerie,  and  that  the  total  of  all  such  beings  might  number  far 
more  than  nineteen.  “How  can  so  few  protect  us?”  I asked. 

From  inside  our — and  then  she  had  written  a word  I could  not  read.  I 
handed  the  paper  to  the  eunuch  and  asked  him  to  read  the  word  for  me. 

“This  is  the  word  for  boat,  ship,  or  craft,”  he  said,  and  he  handed  back  the 
paper. 

“Is  there  a river  beyond  the  mountains?”  I asked,  wondering  whether  the 
Nile,  perhaps,  had  its  source  in  the  Air.  If  that  were  the  case,  and  if  we  sailed 
down  it  to  Cairo,  I could  arrange  passage  home — and  forever  be  remembered 
as  he  who  had  discovered  the  Nile’s  source,  he  who  had  solved  that  great 
mystery  and  lived  to  profit  from  it — but  Suleiya  shook  her  head. 

“There  is  no  river,”  the  eunuch  said.  “She  has  ever  described  whatever 
brought  her  here  with  this  word.  No  one  understands  but  she.” 

Suleiya  took  the  paper  and  wrote;  My  people  should  have  repaired  our  ship 
and  come  for  me  before  now.  I am  sick  with  worry  as  to  why  they  have  not.  If 


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you  cannot  come  with  me,  at  least  help  me  find  some  means  of  escape  so  I 
might  go  to  them  on  my  own. 

While  I read  those  words  she  sat  disconsolately  in  the  chair.  I considered 
my  options:  escape  to  Bilma  with  Ibn  Faleiha  and  the  company  of  an  entire 
caravan,  which  offered  considerable  protection,  or  escort  Suleiya  to  her  eigh- 
teen people  and  their  “ship”  in  the  mountains  to  unravel  there  a great  mys- 
tery. I chose  the  mystery. 

Briefly  I explained  Ibn  Faleiha’s  plan  for  our  escape.  The  eunuch  and  I 
arranged  to  be  in  daily  contact  through  AbduUah  so  that  I could  apprise  them 
of  the  time  of  our  departure.  The  eunuch  and  Suleiya  would  find  a way  for 
her  to  leave  the  Sultan’s  palace  and  come  to  Ibn  Faleiha’s  when  I sent  word. 

If  the  ship  is  repaired,  we  will  fly  you  home  to  your  England,  she  wrote  on 
the  paper. 

I had  little  time  to  wonder  at  that.  “Now  you  must  hurry  to  the  Sultan!” 
the  eunuch  said.  “He  will  question  your  delay.” 

But  the  Sultan  seemed  not  to  have  noticed  the  few  minutes  I had  spent 
with  his  wife  and  the  eunuch.  I drew  for  them  a second  map  of  my  Utopia, 
adding  many  imaginary  details. 

We  again  ate  at  a late  hour.  This  time,  however,  I did  not  become  ill.  As  I 
prepared  to  take  my  leave,  the  Sultan  looked  long  at  me.  ‘Tou  have  enter- 
tained me  well,”  he  said.  “I  did  not  think  a Christian  capable  of  that.” 

I wondered  at  those  words  as  I walked  home  alone.  They  seemed  odd  to 
me,  and  I considered  their  implications.  Suddenly  I heard  movement  in  the 
shadows  against  the  building  ahead,  then  low  voices.  A group  of  some  ten 
men  dressed  in  black  robes  stood  waiting  there,  probably  for  me.  I was  un- 
armed and  outnumbered.  With  a shout,  I turned  and  ran  back  toward  the 
palace  and  the  assistance,  I hoped,  of  its  guards.  But  I found  the  doors 
barred.  Though  I knocked  repeatedly,  no  one  came  for  some  time. 

My  assailants  fell  upon  me  and,  despite  my  best  efforts  to  fight,  beat  me 
with  clubs  till  I thought  I would  surely  die.  I was  knocked  to  the  ground, 
where  I held  my  head  in  my  hands  to  try  to  protect  it.  The  blow  from  one  club 
broke  the  fingers  of  my  left  hand,  but  just  as  that  happened,  the  doors 
opened  and  the  guard  rushed  forth.  My  assailants  scattered  and  ran  away 
down  dark  streets,  some  pursued  for  a time  by  the  guards.  I was  dragged  in- 
side, where  the  eunuch  dressed  my  wounds.  “You  are  lucky  to  be  alive,”  he 
said. 

I wondered  how  long  I would  continue  to  be  lucky.  I remembered  the  Sul- 
tan’s strange  words — portentous,  they  now  seemed.  The  lack  of  guards  out- 
side the  palace  and  their  slow  response  meant  that  perhaps  they  had  hoped  I 
would  be  killed — the  mahdi  appeased,  the  Christian  dead,  the  Sultan  spared 
an  order,  somehow  painful  to  him,  for  my  execution. 

I could  walk.  'The  guard  escorted  me  to  Ibn  Faleiha’s,  where  Abdullah  and 
others  fussed  over  me  till  a late  hour. 


3 June  1817 

After  a week  I have  healed  enough  to  attend  again  to  this  journal.  I wrote 
the  entry  for  27  May  today,  as  if  I had  written  it  that  night. 

Two  of  my  ribs  are  apparently  broken,  besides  my  fingers.  Most  of  my  body 
is  still  bruised  and  sore.  But  I am  alive,  healing,  and,  as  the  eunuch  said, 
lucky.  The  mahdi  has  praised  my  attackers  in  sermons  all  this  week. 

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Abdullah  is  just  retiumed  from  the  caravansary  where  today  the  son  of  Ibn 
Faleiha  will  finish  conducting  his  business  and  depart  Agadez,  taking  with 
him  his  mother  and  the  servants  of  Ibn  Faleiha,  none  of  whom  should  evi- 
dently be  missed  for  a time.  By  night,  he  will  retm-n  for  Ibn  Faleiha  and  my 
party.  The  eunuch  is  to  escort  Suleiya  to  meet  us  then,  and  we  will  all  climb 
over  the  wall  by  cover  of  darkness  and  make  our  escape — the  eunuch  intend- 
ing to  accompany  Ibn  Faleiha  to  Bilma,  as  he  fears  he  will  be  imphcated  in 
Suleiya’s  disappearance. 

Abdullah  tells  me  that  the  horses  he  and  I will  ride  are  fine  animals,  tan 
Arabians.  ‘Tou  must  return  these  horses  to  my  son,”  Ihn  Faleiha  told  me. 
“They  are  worth  a great  deal.”  I do  not  doubt  his  words,  and  I promised  to  re- 
turn the  horses,  God  willing,  after  I had  delivered  Suleiya  to  her  people.  I 
hope  to  be  able  to  hold  reins  during  the  wild  ride  we  will  surely  have  to  the 
Air  mountains. 

Ibn  Faleiha  is  furious  with  me  for  having  promised  to  help  a Sultan’s  wife 
escape  certain  death — “This  Moon  girl!”  he  called  her.  “This  unholy  creatvu-e 
whose  presence  in  Agadez  I opposed.  You  will  be  pursued.  I can  only  think 
that,  with  this  rash  deed,  you  will  draw  the  Sultan’s  army  after  you  and  de- 
liver us.  For  that,  perhaps,  I should  thank  you,  and  for  that  reason  alone  will 
I allow  you  to  assist  her.” 

Abdullah  refuses  to  go  to  Bilma  and  insists  on  accompan3dng  me  on  this 
mad  journey.  I can  only  imagine  what  he  will  think  when  he  sees  Suleiya’s 
face  and,  perhaps,  wings. 

I am  sending  these  journals  with  Ibn  Faleiha,  since  in  our  saddle  bags  is 
room  for  only  food  and  water.  Abdullah,  Suleiya,  and  I must  travel  lightly. 
My  plan  is  to  reach  Bilma  eventually,  take  up  this  journal,  and  write  in  it  an 
account  of  all  that  befalls  us  in  the  coming  days  and  of  the  wonders  I might 
see. 

The  sun  has  just  set.  From  my  window,  by  the  last  dim  light  of  day,  I see 
the  eunuch  and  a veiled  woman  approach  this  house.  Abdullah  and  I risk 
much  to  protect  this  woman  who  is  not  human,  and  to  solve  her  mystery. 

Our  plan  is  afoot.  Soon  all  of  us  will  have  set  off  into  a desert  filled  with 
brigands,  pursued  by  a Sultan  and  bis  armies.  Abdullah  has  spent  much  of 
the  day  in  prayer. 

I go  now  to  join  him. 

The  rest  of  the  journal  is  blank.  I found  Frangois  Brissot  sitting  on  the  floor 
in  the  stacks,  sorting  papers  from  a cardboard  box  into  neat  piles.  “Where  did 
this  come  from?”  I asked. 

“From  the  archives  of  the  mosque  at  Bilma,”  he  said.  ‘When  the  govern- 
ment closed  that  city,  the  mosque’s  records  ended  up  here,  just  in  time  for  the 
Nigerians  to  scatter  them.” 

“Have  you  read  it?” 

“Over  the  last  six  days,  slowly,  of  course,  and  with  my  French/Enghsh  dic- 
tionary nearby.  I’d  never  done  more  than  glance  at  the  records  from  Bilma 
before  now,  and  was  surprised  to  find  anything  in  English  among  them.” 

“Were  other  journals  or  papers  with  it?” 

“Only  this,  so  far.”  Brissot  motioned  vaguely  at  the  boxes  of  papers  and  the 
stacks  of  books  he  had  spent  six  months  simply  picking  up  from  the  floor. 
“Who  knows  what  we  will  discover  as  we  keep  sorting  and  cataloging,”  he 
said. 

It  was  late.  While  Brissot  locked  up  for  the  night,  I reread  Adams’s  May  24 


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entry  with  its  description  of  Suleiya’s  bracelets,  thinking  that  I had  seen 
something  like  them  in  Niamey,  but  I could  not  remember  where.  Brissot 
and  I live  in  the  same  general  direction,  so  we  walked  together  for  a time.  I 
stopped  Brissot  on  a street  comer  and  pointed  up  at  the  night  sky  northeast 
of  us.  Niamey  lies  almost  directly  southwest  of  Agadez.  You  can’t  see  the  Air 
mountains  from  there,  but  you  can  of  course  see  the  stars  of  that  quadrant  of 
sky. 

“What  would  we  find  in  the  Air  if  we  went  looking?”  I asked. 

“God  knows,”  he  said. 

In  my  room  that  night,  I opened  my  window  to  look  at  the  stars.  The  breeze 
off  the  Sahara  was  hot  and  dry,  as  always.  I thought  of  Robert  Adams  and  his 
brave  plan  which  had  evidently  not  worked.  He  had  never  arrived  in  Bilma  to 
take  up  writing  again  in  his  journal.  But  what  had  happened  to  him,  Abdul- 
lah, and  the  “Moon  girl”?  Did  the  Sultan  recapture  them?  Were  they  attacked 
by  brigands?  Had  Suleiya’s  people  left  her— and  what  was  she,  after  all?  I 
had  little  hope  that  we  would  ever  learn  the  answer  to  these  questions.  Some 
two  hundred  years  later,  how  could  we  solve  the  mystery  Robert  Adams  dis- 
appeared with? 


The  next  evening,  after  work. 

I walked  to  the  National  Museum  to  study  its  displays  of  jewelry  from  the 
Sultanates,  thinking  that  maybe  here  I had  seen  bracelets  like  the  ones 
Adams  described.  But  the  oldest  items  on  display  from  the  Sultanate  of 
Agadez  were  gold  and  silver  necklaces  dating  from  the  1850s.  I asked  the  cu- 
rator whether  the  displays  were  rotated,  thinking  that  maybe  other  pieces 
were  in  storage  now,  not  on  display,  but  she  assured  me  the  museum’s  hold- 
ings from  the  1800s  were  small  enough  to  be  kept  on  permanent  display. 
They  rotated  nothing  out  of  the  cases.  I described  the  bracelets  Suleiya  had 
worn,  but  the  curator  said  they  did  not  represent  any  Sahelian  design  she 
was  aware  of,  past  or  present. 

I left  the  museum  disappointed.  I told  myself  it  was  unreahstic  to  hope  to 
find  Suleiya’s  bracelets,  or  something  like  them,  but  even  so  I felt  more  and 
more  certain  that  I had  seen  something  hke  them  in  Niamey.  I just  could  not 
remember  where. 


Five  days  later,  in  the  central  market  of  Niamey. 

I’d  become  acquainted  with  a woman  named  Mariam  Yacoub  and  her  three 
sons,  Abdullah,  Nasir,  and  Idrees,  who  import  fruit  from  Gabon.  Mariam  had 
promised  me  mangoes  on  Saturday,  so  on  Saturday  morning,  early,  I walked 
to  her  stall.  I wanted  to  buy  the  mangoes  first,  before  they  sold  out,  then 
wander  through  the  jewelers’  stalls  searching  for  something  that  looked  like 
the  bracelets  Adams  had  described. 

The  mangoes  had  come.  They  were  set  out  in  wooden  crates  stamped  with 
the  bright  red  ink  of  the  Ministre  d’Agricole  du  Gabon  and  the  many  black 
and  red  inks  stamped  officiously  on  the  crates  at  all  the  borders  they  had 
crossed  on  their  way  to  us.  Meuiam  stood  and  held  ripe  mangoes  for  me  to  see 
as  I walked  toward  her,  but  what  made  me  stare  were  the  bracelets  she  wore: 
two  narrow,  copper  bands,  one  with  a large,  yellow  stone,  the  other  with  a 

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small  red  jewel.  She  had  surely  worn  them  before.  It  was  here  that  I had  seen 
bracelets  like  those  Adams  had  described. 

“Where  did  you  get  those  bracelets?”  I asked  her  in  French. 

“I  thought  you  were  coming  for  mangoes,”  she  said. 

“I  am!”  I said.  I explained  about  Robert  Adams’s  journal  and  its  description 
of  the  bracelets  a Sultan’s  wife  had  worn,  telling  her  that  he  had  described 
four  copper  bands,  not  just  two,  one  of  them  with  a blue  jewel. 

Mariam  stared  at  me,  then  called  her  youngest  son.  “Idrees,”  she  said. 
“Idrees!”  She  walked  off,  looking,  evidently,  for  Idrees. 

“Monsieur,”  Abdullah,  her  oldest  son,  said  from  behind  his  fruit  stand. 
“The  mangoes.” 

I purchased  six,  and  Abdullah  packed  them  carefully  in  the  cloth  bag  I’d 
brought  to  the  market.  Mariam  returned  then,  Idrees  at  her  side.  “Please 
come  with  me,”  she  said.  “I  have  something  to  show  you.” 

We  walked  through  the  market  to  the  jewelers’  stalls  and  stopped  at  one, 
where  Mariam  embraced  another  woman.  “My  sister  Ghadda,”  she  said,  in- 
troducing us — and,  behind  Ghadda,  among  her  displays  of  jewelry,  were 
three  sets  of  bracelets  that  matched  Robert  Adams’s  description  of  Suleiya’s. 

I smiled  and  bowed  to  Ghadda. 

“Show  my  American  friend  the  bracelets  on  your  wrist,”  Mariam  said. 

Ghadda  hesitated,  then  held  out  her  left  wrist.  On  it  were  two  copper 
bands,  one  with  a small  red  jewel,  the  other  with  a tiny  blue  one. 

“Ghadda’s  two  and  my  two  are  the  originals,”  Mariam  told  me.  “Our  moth- 
er gave  them  to  us.  These  others  are  copies.” 

“Do  you  wish  to  buy  a set?”  Ghadda  asked  me.  “They  are  beautiful,  though 
simple.  The  jewels  are  rubies  and  a sapphire.”  She  handed  me  a set.  “The  yel- 
low stone  is  from  Eritrea.” 

“Kevin  tells  me  he  has  read  about  these  bracelets,  that  the  wife  of  a sultan 
once  wore  them,”  Mariam  said. 

The  copies  had  Arabic  writing  around  the  base  of  the  yellow  stone.  “Is 
there  any  writing  on  the  originals?”  I asked. 

“On  this  one,  yes,”  Mariam  said.  She  took  off  the  bracelet  with  the  yellow 
stone  and  handed  it  to  me.  Faintly,  around  the  base  of  the  stone,  I made  out 
Arabic  letters.  'That  disappointed  me.  I’d  hoped,  if  there  were  any  script  at 
all,  for  it  to  be  uninteUigible. 

“It  is  a verse  from  the  Koran,”  Mariam  said.  “My  grandmother  had  it  en- 
graved there,  "This  eases  the  afflicted  heart,’  from  the  story  of  the  death  of 
Ibrahim,  the  prophet’s  little  son,  and  how  caring  for  a grave  does  not  benefit 
the  dead  but  comforts  the  living.  It  is  also  what  Ghadda  engraves  on  the 
copies  she  makes.” 

I looked  at  her.  “This  bracelet  had  no  writing  before  then?” 

“Grandmother  told  me  when  I was  a httle  girl  that  there  had  been  writing 
on  it,  but  that  no  one  could  read  it.  She  had  it  replaced  with  this  verse.” 

I compared  the  originals  with  the  copy.  The  copy  appeared  to  be  exact,  and 
beautiful,  as  Ghadda  claimed.  I bargained  with  Ghadda  for  the  copy,  but  not 
very  hard,  and  ended  up  paying  too  much  for  it.  “How  did  the  originals  come 
into  your  family?”  I asked  Mariam,  while  Ghadda  made  change. 

“They  were  a gift  to  our  great-great-great-grandfather,  who  came  from  Mo- 
rocco to  this  land.” 

“And  who  gave  them  to  him?” 

“No  one  ever  told  us  the  wife  of  a sultan,”  Ghadda  said,  handing  me  a few 
coins. 


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“Did  your  ancestor  come  here  guiding  an  English  explorer?”  I asked. 

“Surely  he  was  French,”  Mariam  said. 

Of  course  they  were  from  Bilma. 

Brissot  discounted  the  bracelets  as  coincidence.  “Some  old  North  African 
fashion,”  he  claimed,  but  I wonder.  Fve  asked  Brissot  to  watch  for  anything 
else  from  the  Bilma  archives,  hoping  that  perhaps  some  written  account  of 
Abdullah’s  has  survived,  but  as  I continue  to  volunteer  in  the  chaos  of  the 
archives,  surrounded  by  piles  of  trampled  and  torn  books  and  papers  and 
manuscripts,  many  biumed  for  heat  while  the  Nigerians  camped  here,  I have 
httle  hope.  If  such  a manuscript  ever  existed,  and  if  it  somehow  survived  the 
occupation,  it  may  be  years  before  Brissot  and  his  staff  find  it. 

But  I feel  convinced  that  Abdullah,  at  least,  survived  the  “mad  journey.” 
Mariam  and  Ghadda  knew  little  else  about  their  ancestor,  the  guide  from 
Morocco.  But  they  promised  to  ask  their  mother,  who  is  crippled  with  arthri- 
tis and  spends  her  days  in  a tent  in  the  camps  that  ring  Niamey,  whether  she 
knows  anything  else. 


Two  days  later,  at  Mariam  Yacoub’s  fruit  stall. 

‘Tou  must  come  with  me  to  my  mother,  Kevin,”  Mariam  said.  “She  claims 
to  have  been  waiting  for  someone  to  ask  about  our  ancestor.” 

Ghadda  stood  there,  with  Mariam’s  three  sons,  and  after  they  had  closed 
their  stall,  we  all  walked  to  the  camps  and  the  tent  of  their  mother  and 
grandmother,  Hanna  Abdullah.  She  reached  up  her  hands  to  me  and  pulled 
me  down  beside  her  onto  a worn  carpet. 

“You  are  a Christian?”  she  asked. 

I nodded,  a Christian  by  birth,  at  least. 

“I  thought  it  would  be  a Christian  who  would  come  asking  about  my  great, 
great-grandfather.  A mahdi  would  have  cut  out  his  tongue  for  blasphemy  if 
he  had  kept  telling  his  story,  so  he  stopped  telling  it  generally,  but  he  told  his 
children,  sa5dng  that  someday  someone  would  ask,  and  that  then  they  could 
tell  it.  They  told  their  children,  who  told  my  mother  and  uncle,  and  I have 
told  my  children,  since  death  seems  near  for  me  and  no  one  had  come  asking 
for  the  story  before  you.” 

“You  surprised  us,  that  day  in  the  market,”  Mariam  said.  “We  counseled 
with  mother  before  we  decided  to  let  you  hear  the  story.” 

Hanna  told  me  her  story,  then.  What  she  recounted  matches,  in  general  de- 
tail, Robert  Adams’s  narrative,  down  to  the  description  of  Suleiya,  except 
that  she  believed  Robert  had  been  French  and  Suleiya  an  angel.  Allah,  she 
believed,  had  sent  Robert  to  Agadez  to  bring  out  Ibn  Faleiha’s  household  be- 
fore the  plague  of  1819,  and  to  settle  Abdullah  in  this  land,  where  he  eventu- 
ally married  Ibn  Faleiha’s  youngest  daughter. 

“The  angel  took  the  Frenchman,”  Hanna  said.  “She  gave  Abdullah  her 
bracelets  as  a benediction,  and  he  stood  on  a mountain  ledge  to  watch  her 
take  the  Frenchman  into  the  sky.  It  was  for  saying  that — that  an  angel  had 
taken  a Christian  to  heaven — that  the  mahdi  would  have  cut  out  his  tongue. 
But  all  of  us,  Abdullah  and  Ibn  Faleiha’s  descendants,  see  Allah’s  hand  in 
this.  What  do  you  make  of  it?  Why  have  you  come  asking?” 

How  could  I tell  her?  I was  simply  curious,  while  this  story  had  become 
part  of  her  faith.  I had  wondered,  of  course,  whether  here  we  might  find  evi- 

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dence  for  something  almost  too  good  to  hope  for,  something  almost  like  Han- 
na’s angel.  I suppose  the  story  can  mean  many  things.  I thanked  Hanna  for 
telling  it  to  me,  and  told  her  that  Allah  must  have  wanted  her  family  to  do  a 
special  work  in  this  land,  if  he  had  brought  Abdullah  here  and  saved  Ibn 
Faleiha’s  household,  even  if  to  do  all  that  had  meant  calhng  someone  not  of 
their  faith  to  help  bring  it  to  pass.  Hanna  smiled  at  me  then.  • 

“Others  will  probably  want  to  talk  with  you  about  this,”  I told  her,  thinking 
of  Francois  Brissot,  thinking,  too,  of  possible  tests  someone  might  someday 
want  to  run  on  the  bracelets. 

Brissot  scoffed  at  all  of  this  and  would  not  pursue  it.  He  does  have  work 
enough  for  the  rest  of  his  life. 

So  I have  written  this  account,  appended  a transcript  of  Robert  Adams’s 
journal  to  it,  made  a recording  of  Hanna  recounting  her  story,  and  keep  the 
copy  of  Suleiya’s  bracelet  with  all  of  that.  I will  teU  this  story  to  whomever  I 
can,  if  I think  he  or  she  able  to  do  something  with  it — run  the  tests,  scour  the 
Air,  interview  Hanna  and  her  descendants  in  depth.  If  I find  no  one,  I will 
hand  this  account  to  my  nephew,  and  ask  him  to  do  with  it  what  I have  done. 
Maybe  someday,  someone  will  ask  one  of  us  about  it,  or  we  will  ask  the  right 
questions. 

I often  look  at  stars  now.  I stand  at  night  in  the  hot,  Saharan  breezes  to 
look  at  them.  Forty  degrees  above  the  horizon  in  Africa,  there  are  many, 
many  stars.  • 


Can  yoa  spoi 

tV)(^ 

Sbai> 


The  Moon  Girl 


63 


Cartoon  by  Joe  Mayhew 


Stephen  Dedman 


An  expedition  to  the  Cretaceous  provides 
more  than  one  predator  with  a . • > 


TARGET 

OF 

OPPORTUNI 


June  1998 


The  cockroach  was  slightly  smaller  than  her  foot,  but  it  was  large  enough 
to  make  the  blonde  scream  and  keep  screaming  until  after  the  rest  of  the 
party  had  recovered  and  begun  laughing.  I could’ve  explained  that  none 
of  the  cockroaches  here/now  carry  any  diseases  that  are  dangerous  to  hu- 
mans, but  I knew  it  wouldn’t  make  any  difference;  it  never  does.  Someone 
would  be  bound  to  trot  out  the  theory  that  it  was  roaches,  migrating  across 
the  land  bridges,  that  would  wipe  out  the  dinosaurs,  and  that’s  a symbol  too 
powerful  for  any  logic  to  stand  against,  even  though  it’s  never  been  proven. 

The  blonde  was  still  red-faced  when  we  walked  inside,  and  I half-expected 
the  sight  of  the  borogove  to  start  her  screaming  again;  instead,  she  dropped 
her  backpack,  hunkered  down,  and  began  talking  to  him  in  a thick  but  beau- 
tiful accent  while  her  husband  hung  back.  “What’s  her  name?”  she  asked,  the 
accent  gone. 

“Bruno,”  I replied. 

“How  big  does  he  grow?”  asked  her  husband,  loudly.  He  was  taller  than 
she  was  and  much  taUer  than  me,  and  heavily  muscled  in  a top-heavy  way 
that  always  reminds  me  of  therizinosaurs  and  Neandertals  and  gridiron 
players.  His  skin  and  hair  and  eyes  were  a pale  brown  that  seemed  to  blend 
into  any  background  like  smart  camo.  I wondered  if  the  screaming  had  been 
exaggerated  for  his  benefit.  I could  be  wrong — a lot  of  intelligent  people  have 
a phobia  of  cockroaches — but  it  didn’t  improve  my  opinion  of  him  any. 

“He’s  about  full  grown,  but  females  are  bigger.” 

‘What  does  he  eat?”  asked  the  blonde. 

“Anything  smaller  than  he  is,”  I said,  a little  sourly.  “If  there’s  any  food  in 
your  pack,  he’ll  find  it  before  you  can  say  Borogovia  holtzi.”  Bruno  looked 
hurt,  but  it  was  true;  he’s  as  inquisitive  and  unethical  and  almost  as  intelli- 
gent as  a cat.  His  legs  and  flanks  and  face  are  striped  like  those  of  a tabby,  he 
stands  about  a meter  tall,  and  he’s  easily  domesticated  by  dino  standards, 
meaning  that  he’s  friendly  as  long  as  he’s  well  fed.  We  keep  him  around  to 
keep  the  insects  down  and  remind  the  travelers  where  and  when  they  are;  it 
wouldn’t  be  the  Cretaceous  without  dinosaurs.  Bruno  could  kdl  a human  in  a 
fair  fight,  but  when  did  we  ever  fight  fair? 

The  husband  was  admiring  Bruno’s  claws.  “How  closely  is  he  related  to  the 
troodons?” 

“They’re  ninety-something  percent  similar  genetically,  but  Bruno’s  not  lo- 
cal— he’s  from  Mongolia.  A friend  at  the  hostel  there  gave  him  to  us;  there 
were  one  female  and  two  males  in  the  clutch,  and  the  males  were  always 
fighting.” 

One  of  the  women  laughed,  and  the  blonde  asked,  “Is  he  as  smart  as  the 
troodons?” 

I shrugged.  “I  wouldn’t  know.” 

“You  don’t  believe  these  stories  about  troodons  making  tools,  then?”  asked 
the  husband. 

‘Tve  never  seen  it,”  I evaded.  The  blonde  looked  crestfallen.  “I’ve  seen  them 
hunting  in  packs,  using  ambush  techniques,  and  I’ve  seen  them  carrying 
food — mostly  carrion — ^but  that’s  all.  It’s  a long  way  from  tool  use,  much  less 
tool  making.  Is  that  why  you’re  here?” 

“S?ie  is,”  the  husband  snorted.  “I’m  more  interested  in  doing  some  hunting. 
When  can  we  go  out  of  the  dome?” 

“Any  time  you  like,”  I replied.  I was  beginning  to  dislike  this  one  more  and 
more  every  time  he  opened  his  mouth;  why  do  so  many  intelligent,  beautiful 
women  marry  such  total  dorks?  “Closest  exit’s  down  Horner  Street,  turn  left 

Stephen  Dedman 


66 


Asimov's 


on  Sawyer,  right  on  Russell.  I recommend  you  take  a respirator  mask;  oxy- 
gen content  outside  is  higher  than  you’re  used  to,  and  it  may  make  you  over- 
confident.” 

“Is  it  dangerous?” 

“Not  really;  we  only  lose  two  point  three  people  per  year,  on  average.  Dinos 
don’t  come  too  close  to  the  city — most  of  them  have  zero  curiosity,  and  I don’t 
think  they  like  the  smell — and  the  pterors  won’t  bother  you  unless  they  think 
you’re  already  dead  or  dying.  None  of  the  snakes  are  really  dangerous,  but 
don’t  go  swimming  in  the  rivers;  some  of  the  crocs  grow  close  to  twenty  me- 
ters long.  But  the  local  wildlife’s  already  learning  to  fear  us;  the  biggest  ani- 
mals you’re  likely  to  see  are  the  dragonflies  and  butterflies,  though  they’re 
pretty  spectacular.  If  you  want  to  see  dinosaurs,  you  take  a flier.” 

“These  two  point  three  victims,”  said  the  husband.  “What  sort  of  dinosaur 
kills  them?” 

‘Topsies — hornfaces — mostly,”  I said.  “Some  tourists  go  too  near  the  herds, 
and  spook  them.  And  sometimes  it’s  difficult  to  tell  how  the  people  died,  es- 
pecially if  the  scavengers  get  to  them  before  we  do.  About  one  in  ten  are  nev- 
er found  at  all.  Now,  let’s  get  you  all  checked  in.” 

A lot  of  people  come  to  Maia  City  for  the  dinosaurs,  of  course,  but  mostly 
we’re  a stop-over,  a waystation.  It’s  not  possible  to  make  a leap  of  less  than 
twelve  million  years  (please  don’t  ask  me  why  not,  I just  work  here),  and 
more  energy-efficient  to  go  back  or  forward  seventy  or  even  two  hundred  mil- 
lion. It’s  something  like  the  slingshot  effect  they  used  to  use  to  boost  the 
speed  of  unmanned  spacecraft,  but  not  quite,  and  something  like  flying 
around  the  world  instead  of  through  it  . . . anyway,  anyone  wanting  to  see 
something  like  the  Little  Big  Horn  or  the  Seven  Wonders  of  the  World  or  the 
Mediterranean  being  flooded  has  to  go  via  a waystation  in  the  past,  then 
back  to  their  intended  time.  'The  same  for  the  return  trip.  And  since  stations 
and  cities  are  hideously  expensive  to  build  and  maintain,  and  Maia  City  has 
more  to  offer  than  the  others,  we  get  most  of  the  tourist  trade.  Most  of  our 
guests  stay  for  a few  days,  take  a flier  out  to  see  the  topsy  and  hadro  herds  or 
the  pteror  nests  and  maybe  get  a glimpse  of  some  of  the  predators  from  a safe 
distance.  Only  students  stay  for  more  than  a few  days,  and  most  of  them 
choose  to  come  here  rather  than  the  Hilton. 

The  blonde’s  name  was  Sondra,  her  major  anthropology  (I’d  guessed  it 
wasn’t  entomology),  and  she  was  headed  for  early  Pleistocene  Asia  to  study 
the  technology  of  Homo  ergaster  for  her  master’s  thesis.  Her  muscle-bound 
husband  was  Kevin,  nominally  a business  student  (his  father  and  grandfa- 
ther had  both  been  major  financial  contributors  to  the  college),  and  he  was 
obviously  here  mostly  to  keep  an  eye  on  her.  Picking  her  up  was  apparently 
the  only  thing  he’d  ever  done  that  impressed  his  father  and  older  brother, 
and  he  wasn’t  going  to  risk  losing  her,  which  was  why  they’d  married  so 
young.  I learned  most  of  this  from  Amy,  who  was  writing  her  dissertation  on 
predator/prey  ratios  throughout  the  Mesozoic  and  had  an  excellent  reason  for 
detesting  Kevin;  he’d  date-raped  her  when  she  was  a sophomore.  Amy  was 
attractive  in  a dark,  elfin  sort  of  way,  and  since  she  was  friendly  and  unat- 
tached and  obviously  intended  to  stick  around  for  a few  months,  we  ended  up 
spending  the  night  together.  It  was  hardly  her  fault  that  I kept  thinking  of 
Sondra. 

My  room  was  httle  different  from  any  other  double  in  the  hostel.  I’ve  never 
been  one  for  souvenirs,  or  any  other  possessions,  and  the  room  contained 


Target  of  Opportunity 


67 


June  1998 


nothing  but  a bed,  desk,  closet,  chair,  and  the  inevitable  dinosaur  holo- 
posters — excellent  pictures  of  Maiasaura  and  Anatotitan.  “How  long  have 
you  been  here?”  Amy  asked,  as  she  picked  her  clothes  up  from  the  floor. 

“Seven  years.” 

“You  don’t  look  that  old.” 

“Don’t  you  believe  it,”  I said.  “I  was  bom  in  1962.  I could  be  your  great- 
grandfather.” 

“I  wish  you  had  been,”  she  retorted.  “I’d  love  to  have  inherited  your  eyes. 
Where  are  you  from?” 

“Vietnam.  Little  village  called  My  Lai.  I ran  away  from  soldiers  one  day  and 
crashed  into  an  observation  post,  full  of  American  history  students  watching 
their  ancestors  acting  like  monsters.  I don’t  know  how  I got  in,  I had  no  idea  of 
what  anyone  was  saying,  but  they  decided  that  they  couldn’t  just  send  me  out 
to  be  killed.”  I can  stiU  remember  the  girl  who’d  held  on  to  me  while  everyone 
else  was  arguing,  the  first  blonde  woman  I’d  ever  seen.  “So  they  took  me 
home.  I became  something  of  a celebrity  about  the  time  you  were  born,  the 
first  war  orphan  in  decades,  and  a couple  who  worked  for  ChronCorp  adopted 
me.  ChronCorp  ended  up  giving  me  a scholarship  with  a two  year  bond,  and 
when  it  ran  out,  I stayed.  What  do  you  want  for  breakfast?” 

“Can  the  eggs  be  trusted?” 

“I  can  make  an  omelet  you  could  swear  came  from  a chicken.” 

“And  can  you  take  me  to  see  some  of  the  dinosaurs,  later?” 

“If  you  can  wait  until  after  lunch,  sure.” 

To  my  surprise  and  dehght,  Sondra  came  with  us  rather  than  accompany- 
ing Kevin  on  his  hunting  trip.  I reminded  her  that  we  wouldn’t  see  any 
troodons  unless  we  stayed  out  until  nightfall— troodons  were  dusk  feeders, 
with  night  vision  that  would  do  credit  to  a cat — ^but  she  didn’t  even  hesitate. 

The  three  of  us  flew  out  to  the  floodplains  near  what  would  one  day  be  Hell 
Creek,  Montana,  where  Amy  was  able  to  pick  out  predators  among  the  great 
herds  of  herbivores — a daspletosaurus  waiting  in  ambush  by  the  water,  bid- 
ing its  time  for  something  small  and  slow  enough  to  take  with  one  bite;  a pho- 
bosuchus,  a crocodile  nearly  fifteen  meters  long,  sunning  itself  on  a sandbar 
while  small  pterors  picked  parasites  out  from  between  its  teeth  (not  a job  I’d 
relish);  a small  pack  of  mottled  dromaeosaurus,  sickle  claws  hidden  by  the 
undergrowth.  A pair  of  ostrich-like  dromiceiomimus  sprinted  away  from  us 
as  we  glided  overhead;  I clocked  their  speed  at  sixty-six  klicks  on  the 
straight,  and  Sondra  filmed  one  of  them  snapping  up  a drab  butterfly  with- 
out even  breaking  stride.  A moment  later,  I realized  they  were  running  to- 
ward a small  flock  of  birds.  “Vultures,”  said  Amy.  “Something’s  dead.” 

I steered  the  flier  over  to  where  the  scavengers  were  gathering.  The  “some- 
thing” turned  out  to  be  a nodosaurid,  probably  an  Edmontia,  but  it  was  a lit- 
tle late  to  be  sure;  a dryptosaurus  was  using  its  can-opener  claw  to  pry  the 
armor  plates  from  its  back.  It  might  have  found  it  dead,  or  it  might  have 
killed  it  itself,  or  it  might  have  intimidated  the  real  killers  away,  as  hons  and 
tyrannosaurs  do.  A few  stygivenators  and  smaller  carnivorous  dinosaurs 
kept  their  distance,  waiting  their  turn. 

We  watched  until  the  sun  started  to  set,  so  that  Amy  could  count  and  iden- 
tify the  scavengers,  and  then  I headed  back  to  the  city  despite  Sondra’s 
protests.  The  flier  was  solar-powered  and  could  stay  up  for  most  of  the  day, 
but  its  battery  was  limited.  A few  minutes  later,  Sondra  screamed  danger- 
ously close  to  my  ear.  “Down  there!” 


68 


Stephen  Dedman 


Asimov's 


I looked,  and  saw  a small  pack  of  troodon  running  toward  a clump  of 
swamp  cypress.  “What?” 

“One  of  them  had  a spear!” 

I turned  to  Amy,  who  shrugged.  “I  think  it  was  carrying  something,"  she 
said. 

‘Where  is  it  now?” 

“It  ran  back  into  the  trees.  Are  they  scared  of  fliers?” 

“If  they’ve  got  any  sense,  yes;  most  hunting  is  done  from  fliers.”  The  other 
troodons  disappeared  between  the  trees.  “Did  you  film  it?” 

“I  hope  so,”  Sondra  wailed;  she  pressed  the  playback  button,  looked  into 
the  viewfinder,  and  smiled  weakly.  “It  looks  like  a spear,”  she  said. 

Kevin  was  in  a foul  mood  when  we  returned,  muttering  about  cheap  Chinese 
lasers  and  the  embargo  on  bringing  your  own  weapons  through  the  machine, 
and  I suddenly  realized  why  his  surname  was  familiar — ^his  family  had  been 
making  small  arms  for  generations  before  I was  born.  He  was  even  less  im- 
pressed by  Sondra’s  snapshot  than  we’d  been,  and  less  successful  at  hiding  it. 

'The  major  problem  with  the  picture  was  that  the  spear — or  length  of  bam- 
boo— was  on  the  far  side  of  the  troodon’s  body,  and  you  couldn’t  see  whether 
it  was  holding  it,  or  whether  the  end  was  lifted  clear  of  the  ground.  It  didn’t 
help  that  it  didn’t  look  much  like  a spear,  either.  “If  dinos  made  spears, 
wouldn’t  we  have  found  one  by  now?”  asked  Kevin,  a little  suUenly. 

“Not  if  they  were  just  made  of  wood  or  bamboo,”  Sondra  insisted.  “Wooden 
tools  don’t  survive  like  stone  ones.  It’s  like  ergaster  in  the  tropics;  they  prob- 
ably had  wooden  spears,  clubs,  canning  bags,  maybe  even  canoes  or  rafts, 
boomerangs,  bolas  . . . how  much  would  survive  of  a bola,  or  even  a wooden 
bow  strung  with  sinew,  after  sixty-six  million  years?” 

Kevin  thought  about  this.  “Forget  sixty-six  million  years.  How  long’ve 
tourists  been  coming  here?  Twenty  years?  How  come  nobody’ s seen  this  be- 
fore?” 

“Seen,  but  not  photographed,”  I answered,  before  Sondra  could  speak:  she 
shot  me  a look  of  what  might  have  been  gratitude. 

Amy  laughed  softly.  “There’s  a story  my  grandfather  told  me  about  ba- 
boons, when  I was  a little  girl,”  she  said.  “He  said  they  were  intelligent,  even 
knew  how  to  speak  our  languages,  but  were  careful  not  to  let  white  men  hear 
them  in  case  they  made  them  work.” 

“Do  you  believe  that?”  asked  Kevin. 

“Not  any  more,  but  I can’t  disprove  it.” 

Kevin  turned  to  me  for  support.  “You’ve  been  here  for  years,  you  know 
about  dinosaurs;  what  do  you  think?” 

I could’ve  lied,  but  what  would  have  been  the  point?  “I  don’t  know.  Why 
would  troodons  need  spears?  They  have  claws.  Weapons  are  for  weaklings.” 
Kevin  glared,  and  turned  white.  “Sorry,  I put  that  badly.  Our  ancestors  need- 
ed to  make  weapons  because  their  claws  and  teeth  were  too  small  to  be  effec- 
tive for  killing,  and  there  were  plenty  of  predators  who  could  out-run  and  out- 
climb  them.  I suspect  they  weren’t  much  smarter  than  baboons  or  gorillas;  all 
they  had  were  good  grasping  hands  and  an  upright  gait.  If  they  hadn’t  picked 
up  antelope  horns  and  thighbones,  instant  daggers  and  clubs,  we  wouldn’t  be 
here.  Troodons  have  the  hands  and  the  bipedal  walk,  but  they  also  have  pret- 
ty nasty  toe  claws,  so  they  don’t  really  need  spears.” 

“Extra  reach,”  Sondra  suggested.  “Enough  to  attack  an  ankylosaur  without 
getting  too  close  to  the  tail.  Or  maybe  it’s  a javelin.” 


Target  of  Opportunity 


69 


June  1998 


“Maybe,  but  that  doesn’t  look  like  much  of  a point — it’s  not  stone-tipped,  or 
even  fire-hardened.  And  look  at  Bruno.”  The  borogove  looked  up  at  the  sound 
of  his  name,  realized  that  no  one  was  about  to  feed  him,  then  curled  up  again. 
‘Those  shoulders  aren’t  built  for  a strong  overarm  throw,  and  you’d  need  a 
lot  of  force  to  put  sharpened  bamboo  through  the  average  dino’s  hide — unless 
you’re  dealing  with  dinos  that  are  even  smaller  than  the  troodons,  and  the 
troodons  can  run  most  of  those  down  without  much  trouble.” 

Kevin  stared  at  Bruno,  and  nodded.  “I’m  sorry,  honey,”  he  said,  magnani- 
mously. “But  I’ll  tell  you  what;  I’ll  come  with  you  tomorrow,  take  a rover  back 
to  the  same  place,  go  into  the  forest  and  see  what  we  see.” 

Amy  rolled  her  eyes;  ain’t  we  got  fun?  “Okay,”  I said.  “But  it  won’t  be  a 
hunting  trip;  I’ll  carry  the  gun,  and  you  don’t  use  it  without  my  say-so.  Un- 
derstood?” 

I saw  Kevin  the  next  morning  while  I was  having  my  shower.  He  enthused 
about  hunting  while  he  combed  his  hair,  and  when  he  noticed  that  I was  re- 
plying in  monosyllables,  tried  changing  the  subject  to  women,  then  to  foot- 
ball. “You  don’t  like  me  much,  do  you?”  he  finally  asked,  his  expression 
slightly  puzzled,  his  body  language  defensive,  as  though  it  was  important  to 
him  that  I like  him.  “Is  it  something  I said,  or  just  because  I’m  rich?” 

“Nothing  to  do  with  that.  I’m  just  prejudiced  when  it  comes  to  hunters  and 
guns,”  I admitted.  “I  know  what  it  feels  like  to  have  someone  chasing  me  with 
a gun,  hunting  me.  My  sympathies  lie  with  the  prey,  especially  if  it  can’t 
fight  back.” 

His  brow  furrowed  as  he  considered  this  for  a moment.  “I’d  never  hunt  hu- 
mans,” he  said,  “but  these  are  just  big  animals,  not  even  as  smart  as  deer.” 

I shrugged.  “I  said  it  was  a prejudice.  Besides,  I don’t  think  we  have  much 
in  common.” 

He  laughed  at  that.  “You  like  women,  though,  don’t  you?” 

“Sure.” 

“Well,  that’s  something.”  He  was  silent  for  a moment.  “Have  you  ever  tried 
it?” 

‘Tried?” 

“Hunting.” 

“No.”  I switched  the  shower  from  water  to  sonic. 

‘You’ve  lived  here  for  years  and  never  gone  hunting?”  he  yeUed,  over  the 
sound  of  the  shower. 

“Never.” 

“Maybe  you  should.” 

“Maybe.”  I switched  the  shower  off,  and  grabbed  my  shorts. 

“Why  don’t  you  come  with  us  tomorrow?”  he  suggested.  “Sondra  and  me. 
I’m  going  after  a — what  do  you  call  the  big  herbivores  with  the  crests?” 

“Lambeosaurines .” 

“What’s  the  one  with  the  really  long  crest,  like  a snorkel?” 

“Parasaurolophus.” 

“Yeah,  that.  The  satellites  show  a whole  herd  less  than  a hundred  klicks 
away.  Why  don’t  you  come  with  us?” 

“I’ll  think  about  it,”  I said. 

We  spent  most  of  that  day  seeing  the  floodplains  through  nocs  and  the 
windows  of  a hoverover,  while  I watched  the  satellite  pictures  on  the  com  and 
steered  us  away  from  the  herds  of  triceratops  and  torosaurus  and  any  large 

Stephen  Dedman 


70 


Asimov's 


predators.  After  a less  than  enchanting  day,  we  returned  to  the  swamp  cy- 
presses just  before  nightfall.  Sondra  wanted  to  get  out  and  walk  into  the  for- 
est, and  when  I expressed  reluctance,  Kevin  opened  the  door  on  his  side  and 
jumped  out  without  even  donning  his  respirator.  I cursed  myself  silently  for 
not  having  locked  his  door,  wondered  what  the  hell  he  was  trjdng  to  prove, 
and  decided  that  I couldn’t  let  him  go  there  unarmed  and  alone.  “Okay,”  I 
sighed,  grabbing  the  laser.  “Put  your  masks  on,  and  let’s  go.” 

Kevin  had  a good  head  start  and  he  kept  increasing  it,  though  he  was  care- 
ful to  look  back  occasionally  to  make  sure  Sondra  was  watching,  or  safe; 
maybe  both.  A troodon  stuck  its  head  out  from  behind  a tree,  and  Kevin 
yelled  and  charged  toward  it.  Naturally  enough,  it  disappeared.  I resigned 
myself  to  an  hour  of  searching  fruitlessly  for  elusive,  cunning,  small  di- 
nosaurs in  their  own,  well-shadowed  territory,  and  reached  into  my  pocket 
for  my  shades,  setting  them  to  infra-red. 

A moment  later,  a male  troodon,  a length  of  bamboo  in  its  hands,  appeared 
just  a few  meters  in  front  of  Kevin.  He  turned  toward  it,  and  stopped.  We 
were  too  far  behind  him  to  hear  what  he  was  saying,  but  it  wasn’t  hard  to 
guess;  Amy  was  muttering  something  in  what  I guessed  was  Zulu,  and  Son- 
dra was  squealing  with  joy.  Slowly,  and  cautiously,  the  three  of  us  advanced 
toward  where  Kevin  was  now  standing.  We  were  at  the  edge  of  the  wood 
when  the  troodon  looked  at  Kevin,  tilting  its  head  first  to  the  left,  then  to  the 
right,  and  then  raised  the  bamboo  to  its  mouth.  After  all  the  fuss,  it  looked 
as  though  the  bamboo  was  just  food,  something  to  chew  on — and  then  Kevin 
turned  to  face  us,  and  I saw  something  small  sticking  out  of  his  throat.  The 
bamboo  wasn’t  food,  or  a spear,  but  a blowgun:  I brought  the  laser  up, 
thumbed  the  safety,  and  yelled  to  the  girls  to  head  back  to  the  car. 

Kevin  staggered  in  our  direction — the  dart  must  have  been  poisoned,  blow- 
gim  darts  almost  always  are.  I remembered  reading  that  BaMbuti  blowguns 
can  bring  down  a gorilla  or  elephant,  and  tried  to  forget  it.  Another  male 
troodon  appeared,  also  with  a length  of  bamboo;  I fired,  and  hit  the  blowgun, 
which  exploded  into  flames,  as  well  as  the  troodon  holding  it  and  the  tree  be- 
hind him.  'The  damn  fool  had  set  the  laser  to  maximum  power,  enough  to  kill 
a t5n-annosaur,  leaving  enough  charge  for  maybe  five  or  six  man-killing  shots. 

The  fire,  and  the  crack  of  the  laser,  scared  the  troodons  away  for  a few  sec- 
onds, and  then  a dozen  appeared,  brandishing  weapons  better  than  any  na- 
ture had  given  them — triceratops  horns  and  dr3q)tosaurus  claws.  Kevin  ran, 
but  they  were  much  faster,  and  they  soon  surrounded  him,  herding  him  away 
from  us.  I heard  Sondra  screaming  out  to  Kevin,  telling  him  to  stop,  stand  his 
groimd.  He  continued  to  run — and  then  disappeared.  I stood  my  ground  and 
kept  firing  until  Amy  stopped  the  rover  a few  meters  behind  me,  and  then  I 
ran  too. 

With  the  rover  at  maximum  lift,  I drove  near  the  spot  where  the  troodons 
were  gathered,  warning  Sondra  not  to  look  down.  Kevin  was  lying  motionless 
in  a shallow  pit,  impaled  on  topsy  horns  and  stakes  of  sharpened  bamboo. 
The  troodons  looked  up  as  our  shadow  passed  over  them,  then,  obviously  de- 
ciding that  he  was  already  dead,  began  hacking  at  him  with  the  horns  and 
claws.  I made  a note  of  the  location,  then  drove  away. 

“Those  weapons,”  said  Sondra,  at  breakfast  the  next  morning.  ‘The  blow- 
guns  . . . the  troodons  are  hunting  us,  aren’t  they?”  I raised  my  eyebrows,  but 
said  nothing.  I could  feel  Amy  watching  me  as  she  ate  her  omelet.  “Those 
darts  wouldn’t  go  through  dinosaur  hide.” 


Target  of  Opportunity 


71 


June  1998 


“They  might,  at  close  range.  They’d  only  need  to  sting  a httle,  like  a horse- 
fly, to  get  the  dinosaur  running,  steer  him  toward — in  the  right  direction.” 
The  stakes  would  work  anyway,  like  judo — you  just  use  your  opponent’s  size 
and  weight  against  him — but  I didn’t  want  to  say  that.  She  hadn’t  seen  Kevin 
die,  or  what  little  they’d  brought  back  in  a body  bag. 

“How  big  was  the  pit?” 

“Three  or  four  meters;  big  enough  for  a juvenile  hadro  or  topsy,  and  deep 
enough  that  even  an  adult  might  have  difficulty  getting  out.” 

“I  don’t  know,”  she  said,  staring  into  her  coffee.  ‘1  stiU  think  they’re  hunt- 
ing us.  After  aU,  we’re  the  weakest  prey  around,  aren’t  we,  once  you  separate 
us  from  the  herd?” 

I looked  at  Bruno,  and  then  at  Amy,  who  suddenly  seemed  fascinated  by  a 
butterfly  on  the  ceiling.  ‘It’s  much  more  likely  they’ve  been  using  the  darts 
on  birds  or  pterosaurs,”  I said.  “Or  maybe  on  each  other.  But  at  most,  they’re 
taking  one  or  two  humans  a year — hardly  a staple  of  their  diet,  more  a . . .” 

“Target  of  opportunity?”  Amy  suggested.  I glared  at  her,  then  shrugged. 

Sondra  sat  there  silently  for  at  least  a minute,  then  drank  the  rest  of  her 
tepid  coffee.  “Well,  we  have  evidence,  now,”  she  said. 

Kevin’s  family  threatened  to  sue,  but  Sondra  and  Amy  supported  my  ver- 
sion of  events;  Amy  even  had  a few  hastily-taken  snapshots  as  proof.  I kept 
copies  after  the  court  cleared  me  of  all  blame;  they’re  the  only  souvenirs  I 
own.  They’re  a little  too  gruesome  for  pubhc  display,  but  Amy  Ukes  to  take 
them  out  and  reminisce  every  time  she  visits.  “Poor  Kevin,”  she  sighed.  “If 
only  one  of  us  had  recognized  those  weapons  for  what  they  were,  we  might 
have  been  able  to  save  him.” 

“How  could  we?”  I asked.  “The  pit  was  well  concealed,  so  there  was  no  way 
we  could  have  seen  it  from  ground  level.  And  the  blowgun  just  looked  like  a 
length  of  bamboo;  I’d  never  even  seen  anyone  use  a blowgun  before.  Had 
you?” 

Amy  sipped  at  her  tea.  “No,  but  Sondra  must  have.  I know  that  Homo  er- 
gaster  had  them.” 

“Sondra?”  I stared  at  her.  “You  can’t  be  serious.  Okay,  we  both  disliked 
him,  but  not  enough  to  set  him  up  to  be  killed.  Right?”  She  hesitated,  then 
nodded.  “But  Sondra?’ 

She  shrugged.  “I  suspect  she  stands  to  inherit  a lot  of  money.  But  I could  be 
wrong.” 

Amy  moved  to  Maia  City  a few  months  later,  renting  a room  around  the 
corner  from  the  hostel,  though  she  stays  here  most  nights.  Sondra  hasn’t 
been  back,  and  sometimes  I miss  her,  but  that  probably  wouldn’t  have 
worked  out  anyway.  I suspect  she’s  a httle  too  civihzed  for  the  Cretaceous. 

But  I could  be  wrong.  • 


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more  of  our  readers.  Editorial  correspondence  should  include  the  writer's 
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72 


Stephen  Dedman 


PERSONAL  COSMOLOGY 


out  there  in  space 

folds  of  cosmic  fabric 

roll  together  stars, 

like  marbles  moving 

spiral-wise  around 

a funnel.  • 

me  by  you, 
as  focal  points 
. * we  spin  together 
starlike 

sometimes  near  * 

& sometimes  far  apart 

but  always  hasten 
inward  making 
helix  twist  and  open 
inside  helix, 
like  the  lightning 
streaking  cloud-lit  skies 

# 


— Dana  Wilde 


Sarah  Clemens 


RED 

Sarah  Clemens  is  a legal  medical  illustrator.  Her  first 
story  for  Asimov's  is  inspired  by  "memories  of  growing 
up  in  that  strange  place  called  the  South,  where  there's 
an  eccentric  relative  in  every  family  and  the  Civil  War  is 
still  referred  to  as  'The  War  of  Northern  Aggression.'" 
The  author's  previous  sales  include  stories  to  Ripper!, 
Little  Deaths,  and  Twists  of  the  Tail. 


Red  came  to  a dead  stop  at  the  edge  of  the  garden.  “I  don’t  know  who  you 
think  you  are,”  she  said,  her  voice  firm.  “But  those  are  Miss  Lydia’s 
strawberries.” 

“I’m  Virginia,”  said  the  colored  girl,  getting  up  and  brushing  off  her  dress. 
“Matilda  is  my  mama,  and  Miss  Lydia  said  I could  pick  ’em  anytime  I want- 
ed.” 

'They  stood  facing  each  other  in  the  poimding  August  heat,  and  Red’s  tem- 
per wilted  as  she  wiped  her  freckled  face  with  her  sleeve  and  pulled  off  her 
hat  to  use  as  a fan.  “Well,  I guess  that’s  okay.”  She  shoved  the  straw  hat  back 
onto  her  head  and  sat  between  rows,  picking  a particularly  juicy  berry  and 
plopping  it  into  her  mouth.  'The  strawberry  patch  at  the  back  of  the  property 
was  shut  out  from  the  rest  of  the  world,  hemmed  in  by  stately  hedges. 

“Are  you  Yvette?”  asked  Virginia.  She  was  a gravely  pretty  girl  with  dark 
brown  skin  and  braids  all  over  her  head,  chpped  with  colorful  barrettes. 

Red  grimaced  theatrically.  “I  hate  that  name.  CaU  me  Red.” 

‘It  fits.  You  here  for  long?” 

“Through  the  end  of  this  month  and  into  the  first  week  of  September,”  said 
Red,  getting  up  and  joining  Virginia  on  her  row. 

‘You’ll  be  here  for  Miss  Portia’s  next  spell,”  said  Virginia  matter-of-factly. 
“Her  last  one  was  something!  The  hons  over  at  the  zoo  roared  all  night  and 
the  wolves  howled.” 

“They  did?” 

‘Yeah,  and  Miss  Lydia  and  my  mama  were  with  her  all  night.” 

Red  picked  a berry  and  cautiously  handed  it  to  Virginia.  “How  old  are 
you?” 

For  the  second  time  they  sized  each  other  up. 

‘Twelve.” 


74 


“Ten,”  said  Red.  They  ate  strawberries  for  a while,  a few  making  it  into  a 
bucket  Red  had  brought  with  her.  “I’ve  never  talked  to  anyone  colored  my 
own  age,”  she  said  finally. 

Virginia  grinned.  “Me  either.  No  white  girl,  I mean.  But  my  teacher  says 
this  is  1963  and  things  are  going  to  change.” 

“You  mean  like  going  to  school  together  and  stuff?” 

“Yeah.  Last  year  a black  man  tried  to  get  into  a college  in  Mississippi. 
Someday — ” she  broke  off  and  hfted  a finger.  “Listen.  You  hear  that?” 

It  was  a deep  Aaaaauh  . . . Aaaaauh,  filling  the  heavy  air  between  them 
and  the  Memphis  zoo.  The  lions  roaring,  bringing  the  outside  world  into  Ly- 
dia’s isolated  garden. 

“Feeding  time,”  whispered  Virginia. 

“Yvette!  Yvette?  Where  are  you!” 

Red  squinched  up  her  face.  “It’s  my  grandmother.  I’ll  talk  to  you  later. 
G’bye.” 

She  ran  to  the  house  with  her  few  strawberries  and  Lydia,  her  grandmoth- 
er, closed  the  screen  door  behind  her. 

“How  can  you  run  in  this  heat,  child?  Put  your  bucket  down  and  let’s  sit  in 
the  dining  room.” 

That  meant  it  was  serious. 

“Do  you  know  why  you’re  here?”  asked  Lydia,  her  hands  reflected  in  the 
rich  depths  of  the  mahogany  table.  Red  could  see  heavyset  Matilda  pass  by 
the  door,  listening.  Matilda,  Virginia’s  mother,  who  smelled  of  Clorox  and 
sweat,  whose  dark,  round  face  was  framed  with  wisps  of  gray  hair  that  flew 
loose  from  her  tight  bun.  She  seemed  aloof  to  Red,  as  if  she  owned  the  house, 
rather  than  cleaned  it.  Lydia  didn’t  seem  to  know  she  was  there. 

Red  put  both  elbows  on  the  table.  “Uh — ^because  my  parents  are  moving  us 
to  New  York  and  this  summer’ll  be  my  last  chance  to  learn  any  manners,  be- 
cause God  knows  they  don’t  have  any  up  there.” 

Lydia  cocked  an  eyebrow.  “If  I didn’t  know  better,”  she  said  in  her  refined 
drawl,  ‘Td  say  you  were  repeating  something  you  heard.” 

Red  shrugged. 

“Well,”  said  Lydia,  “we’ve  never  been  all  that  close,  you  and  I,  and  that’s 
why  I told  your  mother  I’d  keep  you  here  in  Memphis  while  they  move.  I am 
your — grandmother.  And  you  haven’t  seen  much  of  your  Great-grandmother 
Portia.  She’ll  be  down  with  one  of  her  spells  while  you’re  here,  at  the  end  of 
your  visit,  but  that  shoxildn’t  be  a problem.  As  to  manners . . . I’U  start  by  call- 
ing you  by  your  Christian  name,  Yvette.  Red  sounds  like  a cowboy.” 

“I  hate  Yvette.” 

Lydia  just  looked  at  her  from  beautiful,  drooping  eyes,  her  fine  hps  curv- 
ing up  on  one  side.  “Well,  youll  just  have  to  get  used  to  hearing  it,  because  I 
won’t  caU  you  Red.  I was  educated  at  a good  school  where  they  taught  you 
manners.” 

Red’s  face  brightened.  “Daddy  says  that  back  before  the  Punic  Wars  you 
went  to  Randolph-Macon.” 

Lydia’s  eyes  narrowed.  “How  kind  of  him  to  fill  you  in.” 

Through  the  screened  windows,  covered  with  drifts  of  white  curtain.  Red 
could  hear  the  lions. 

“Do  they  roar  very  often?”  she  asked. 

Lydia  frowned.  “They’re  Hons.  They  roar  when  they  roar.”  She  looked  ele- 
gant in  the  gardening  workshirt  and  khaki  pants  in  a way  Red  feared  she 
never  would. 


Red 


75 


June  1998 


“Great-grandmother  Portia  wants  to  see  you  tomorrow,  Yvette.  She’s  very 
happy  you’ve  come.” 

Red  smiled,  but  it  came  out  more  a wince. 

She  slept  on  a narrow  twin  bed  that  night,  hstening  to  the  fan  huff  hot  air, 
and  to  the  leaves  outside  her  window,  caressing  each  other  in  the  faint 
breeze.  A tear  fell,  hot  against  her  skin  and  the  starched  pillowcase.  This 
room  was  so  different  from  her  own,  and  she  missed  having  her  mother  tuck 
her  in  and  her  father  read  to  her.  'They  had  just  gotten  into  Howard  Carter’s 
The  Tomb  of  Tutankhamon  and  she  longed  for  the  sound  of  his  voice,  the  way 
he  turned  the  book  around  so  they  could  share  the  pictvu-es. 

'Then,  the  night  held  its  breath,  and  so  faintly,  so  faintly,  she  heard  a new 
sound — the  wolves  howling  at  the  zoo. 

“Did  you  wash  your  face  and  comb  your  hair?” 

“Uh-huh.”  Red  never  washed  her  face  if  no  one  was  watching,  and  her 
shock  of  red  hair  didn’t  take  much  maintenance. 

“Say  yes,  not  uh-huh,”  smiled  Lydia. 

They  breakfasted  and  went  out  back,  into  the  dappled  light  of  dogwood 
trees  and  beyond  to  the  irises,  nodding  in  ruffled  and  multi-hued  splendor. 

“When  your  mother  was  little,”  said  Lydia,  “she  would  always  pick  out  a 
blue  iris.  I started  breeding  them  to  get  the  bluest  ones  I could  for  her.”  She 
cut  one  and,  carefuUy,  Red  took  it  from  her. 

“Now,  well  go  see  Great-grandmother  Portia.”  She  led  her  into  a tunnel  of 
trees  and  hedges  to  the  house  next  door.  Lydia  didn’t  have  a lot  of  money, 
compared  to  what  the  'Tucker  family  had  had  when  she  was  young.  When  she 
had  married  Grandfather  Earl,  they  had  purchased  two  shotgun  houses,  side 
by  side  on  Crump  Circle,  the  other  one  for  Great-grandmother  Portia.  Grand- 
father Earl  died  years  before  Red  was  bom.  What  was  left  of  the  Tucker  es- 
tate brought  in  just  enough  to  go  without  working,  which  suited  Lydia  fine, 
because  her  life  was  devoted  to  horticulture.  She  combined  both  backyards  to 
create  a seamless  melding  of  formal  garden  and  Enghsh  herb  garden,  to  plots 
of  irises  and  vegetables,  to  the  cool  tunnel  of  trees  that  led  from  Lydia’s  house 
to  the  back  door  of  Portia’s  house,  because  no  one  ever  went  in  the  front  door. 
Red  had  been  here  several  times,  but  she  couldn’t  help  gaping  at  the  dense- 
ness of  the  foliage  in  the  tunnel.  It  was  as  if  she  had  entered  Sherwood  Forest 
itself,  thick  and  primeval.  'They  emerged  at  the  back  of  the  house  and  Great- 
grandmother Portia  stood  behind  the  screen  door,  a still  gray  shape.  Red 
would  have  given  anything  to  bolt  from  these  old  people  and  their  remote, 
decorous  lives. 

“Why,  you’ve  brought  me  an  iris.”  Portia  swung  the  squinching  door  open 
and  ushered  them  in.  Portia  Tucker  was  dressed  like  a picture  out  of  a book, 
in  a blue  skirt  that  went  all  the  way  to  the  ground  and  a white,  high-necked 
blouse  with  full  sleeves.  Her  face  was  gaunt  and  very  wrinkled  and  her  thin 
hair  lay  piled  in  a braid  on  her  head,  the  pink  from  her  scalp  showing 
through. 

The  leafy  tunnel  had  brought  Red  to  more  than  another  house;  it  seemed 
another  world,  for  there  was  no  washing  machine  or  dryer  on  the  back  porch, 
no  modern  appliances  in  the  kitchen,  not  even  a refrigerator.  Red  noticed 
kerosene  lamps  here  and  there,  storm  covers  lightly  blackened  with  use. 

“Could  I trouble  you  to  put  the  iris  in  a vase?”  The  request  was  directed  at 
Lydia,  who  knew  right  where  the  vase  was;  and  as  she  drew  the  water  and 
dropped  the  flower  in.  Red  realized  her  grandmother  had  command  over  this 


76 


Sarah  Clemens 


Asimov's 


house.  It  was  spelled  out  in  small  gestures,  the  way  Lydia  shook  out  a towel 
and  wiped  the  vase,  how  she  went  forward  into  the  dining  room  and  set  it 
down  where  she  chose. 

“Let’s  us  sit  in  the  dining  room,”  said  Portia.  Lydia  was  already  puUing  out 
chairs.  “The  front  parlor  is  far  too  dark  and  hot.” 

The  magnificent  table,  china  cabinet  and  sideboard  in  the  dining  room 
were  oversized  and  forlorn,  refugees  from  an  antebellum  mansion.  Every 
step  made  the  floorboards  creak  and  the  ancient  china  rattle.  The  living 
room  at  the  front  of  the  house  was  dark  and  thickly  curtained  and  its  dark 
mahogany  furniture,  too,  seemed  to  loom  uncomfortably  in  the  cramped 
space. 

“I  believe  this  is  the  bluest  iris  I have  ever  seen,”  said  Portia.  It  was  a soft 
voice,  honeyed  with  a southern  accent.  She  looked  at  Red  with  eyes  far 
younger  than  her  face,  with  fine  wrinkles  that  turned  up  into  smile  hnes. 

Red  felt  the  dread  lift  a httle  as  she  sat  next  to  the  old  woman  in  the  still, 
cramped  room  where  dodies  covered  every  surface. 

“I  am  pretty  old,”  confessed  Portia.  Her  accent  was  different  than  Lydia’s, 
more  courtly;  and  her  eyes  were  the  palest  blue  Red  had  ever  seen,  as  if  time 
had  bleached  them  out. 

“I’m  pretty  young,”  grinned  Red. 

Lydia  adjusted  a fold  in  the  curtains.  “You  two  have  a little  talk,  while  I go 
out  back  and  pull  some  weeds.  I won’t  be  long.”  Her  eyes  met  Portia’s  for  only 
a moment,  in  what  looked  hke  a warning  frown. 

Portia  was  silent  until  she  heard  the  back  screen  door  slam.  “You’re  no  sis- 
sy, are  you?” 

“I — guess  not.” 

“I  mean,  you’re  not  one  of  those  httle  girls  who  wears  floxmcy  dresses  and 
has  sausage  curls  and  sits  under  a tree  on  a blanket  and  plays  with  dolls.” 

“Oh,  definitely  not.”  Lydia  had  made  Red  wear  a dress  for  this  occasion, 
but  both  skinned  knees  poked  out  from  under  the  hem. 

“Lydia  has  her  good  qualities,”  said  Portia.  “But  she  isn’t  big  on  adventure. 
When  I was  younger,  I had  a lot  of  adventures.  Have  you  ever  been  to  Vicks- 
burg?” 

“No  . . . ma’am.” 

“Like  Memphis,  it  looks  down  on  the  Mississippi  River.  They  dug  trenches 
and  tunnels  during  the  siege.  And  I used  to  prowl  through  them,  and  oh, 
would  the  soldiers  be  surprised  when  I would  come  upon  them!” 

Red  had  no  idea  what  Portia  was  talking  about.  I do  is  watch  Tarzan 
movies,”  she  said  wistfuUy. 

Portia  gave  her  a strange  look.  “WeU,  you  shall  find  adventure  someday.  I 
am  sime  of  it.” 

The  bang  of  the  screen  door  announced  Lydia’s  return.  “How  are  you  two 
getting  along?”  she  asked  at  the  dining  room  door. 

“Just  famously,”  said  Portia.  “In  fact  I would  like  to  give  Yvette  a little 
something.” 

Lydia  froze. 

“Oh,  honey,  just  a httle  box!  Something  my  mother  gave  to  me  when  I was 
a little  girl.  It’s  in  the  chifforobe  in  my  bedroom,  in  that  drawer  where  I keep 
all  my  trinkets.” 

Lydia  went  around  the  corner  and  Red  heard  the  sound  of  drawers  open- 
ing. She  came  back  holding  up  a wooden  box.  “This  one?” 

“No  dear,  the  one  with  the  houUework.” 


Red 


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June  1998 


Lydia  came  back  and  handed  the  small  box  to  Portia,  who  turned  it  over  in 
her  bony,  blue-veined  hands.  She  gave  it  to  Red.  It  was  ebony  wood,  inlaid 
with  brass  and  red  tortoiseshell.  Opening  it,  she  found  a little  key  on  a tassel, 
which  fit  into  the  keyhole. 

“This  is  really  neat,”  said  Red.  “Thank  you,  thank  you  very  much.” 

“My  mother  gave  it  to  me  when  we  still  lived  up  the  river  from  Vicksburg 
at  Fairgrove.  I shall  tell  you  about  her  sometime.” 

“But  right  now,”  Lydia  cut  in,  “Great-grandmother  Portia  needs  her  rest. 
Maybe  you  two  can  visit  again  in  a few  days.” 

Portia  leaned  over  and  whispered  to  Red,  “This  box  holds  secrets.” 

“Pretty  fancy,”  said  Virginia. 

They  sat  on  a bench  across  from  the  herb  garden,  taking  advantage  of  the 
shade  as  the  cicadas  tirelessly  whirred  their  song  of  summer  heat. 

The  black  girl  opened  the  box  and  looked  inside. 

“She  said  something  kinda  funny,”  said  Red.  ‘That  it  holds  secrets.” 

“Old  people  say  things  like  that.  Maybe  she  was  talkin’  about  memories.” 

“I  dunno.  It  was  funny  the  way  she  said  it.  Oh!  And  you  know  what  else? 
She  whispered  it  to  me,  like  she  didn’t  want  Lydia  to  hear.” 

They  stared  at  the  box. 

“Maybe  . . .”  said  Virginia,  suddenly  excited,  “maybe  it’s  like  something  I 
saw  on  Miss  Lydia’s  TV,  on  77  Sunset  Strip.  You  know,  a secret  compart- 
ment.” 

Red  took  the  box  back  and  turned  it  over  carefully.  “Well,  the  bottom’s  aw- 
fully heavy.” 

Together  they  picked  and  poked  at  the  box.  It  was  Virginia  who  acciden- 
tally pressed  the  inlay  on  one  side,  causing  the  bottom  to  come  loose  at  one 
edge.  With  careful  prying,  the  bottom  swung  out,  revealing  a shallow  com- 
partment filled  with  a mashed  scrap  of  cloth.  Red  pulled  it  out  and  a key  fell 
to  her  lap.  A modern  brass  key. 

“Do  you  recognize  it?”  asked  Red. 

Virginia  shook  her  head.  ‘Mama  has  lots  of  keys  for  the  houses,  and  I can’t 
tell.” 

‘Your  mother  knows  a lot  about  things  around  here,  doesn’t  she?” 

‘Yeah.  She’s  been  working  here  since  before  I was  born.  Miss  Lydia’s  been 
good  to  our  family.  She  helped  us  a lot  when  my  papa  died.” 

“Your  father  died?” 

Virginia’s  face  was  very  still.  “He  had  cancer  and  he  died  when  I was 
eight.” 

It  was  an  overwhelming  concept  for  Red,  who  felt  enough  pain  just  being 
separated  from  her  father  for  a few  weeks. 

“Wow,  that’s  bad,”  she  said  lamely. 

‘Yvette!” 

They  both  jumped,  then  fumbled  frantically  with  the  key  and  the  cloth  and 
the  box.  The  bottom  snapped  shut  just  as  Lydia  came  around  the  corner. 

“So!  What  are  you  two  up  to?” 

Red  burst  out  laughing  and  Virginia  covered  her  mouth  as  she  giggled. 

“Nothing,”  said  Red.  “Just  looking  at  the  box.” 

‘There’s  lemonade  in  the  house.  Virginia,  could  you  pick  us  some  straw- 
berries, and  we’ll  have  them  with  cream?” 

‘Yes,  ma’am.” 

‘Yvette,”  said  Lydia  as  they  went  into  the  house,  “There’s  a girl  your  age 

78  Sarah  ClemeiK 


Asimov's 


whose  mother  is  a member  of  the  Garden  Society.  She’d  love  you  to  come 
over.” 

“No,  that’s  okay.  Virginia  and  I have  stuff  to  do.” 

“Getting  too  friendly  with  Virginia  might  not  be  a good  idea.” 

“Why  not?” 

Lydia  said  starkly,  “Virginia  is  like  a member  of  this  family,  but  she’s  col- 
ored, and  that  means  we  mix  only  so  far.  Do  you  understand?” 

“I  guess,”  said  Red. 

'The  next  day.  Red  waited  impatiently  until  Virginia  came  to  Miss  Lydia’s 
house.  “My  mama’s  taking  a nap  over  at  Miss  Portia’s.” 

“Great.  Let’s  get  started.”  Red  pulled  the  key  from  her  pocket.  It  didn’t  fit 
the  padlock  on  Lydia’s  basement.  It  didn’t  fit  the  back  door  or  the  front  door. 

“How  long  does  my  grandmother  take  when  she  goes  to  a garden  club 
meeting?” 

“Usually  a couple  of  hours,  sometimes  more.” 

She  and  Red  stood  in  the  hving  room,  and  Red  peered  about,  as  if  she  could 
see  through  the  walls.  “There  aren’t  any  more  locks  here,  are  there?” 

“No.  I told  you  we  should  check  Miss  Portia’s  house.  That  makes  more 
sense.” 

“But  we  had  to  be  sure,”  said  Red,  leaving  unspoken  that  they  reaUy  didn’t 
want  to  go  next  door.  They  traced  their  way  back  through  the  trees,  edging 
past  the  creaking  screen  door  and  into  the  bleak  kitchen. 

“I’ll  check  on  Mama.”  Virginia  was  gone  only  a moment.  “As  far  as  I can  re- 
member,” she  whispered,  “there’s  the  front  door,  the  back  door — ” she  ticked 
them  off  on  her  fingers.  “The  basement,  and  Miss  Portia’s  room.” 

“Miss  Portia’s  room'?” 

Virginia  shrugged. 

Red  took  a resolute  breath.  “Is  your  mother  a heavy  sleeper?” 

“Yeah . . .” 

'They  tiptoed  past  the  dining  room,  wincing  at  each  creaking  board.  Matil- 
da sat  back,  breathing  heavily,  her  work-worn  hands  draped  over  the  arms 
of  the  rocker,  a half-finished  doily  in  her  lap.  Portia  looked  like  a corpse,  en- 
gulfed in  featherbeds  and  lying  on  a canopy  bed  that  nearly  swallowed  the 
small  room.  Red  crept  toward  the  open  door,  ready  to  bolt.  She  shd  the  key 
from  her  pocket,  and  placed  it  against  the  lock.  It  bumped  in  halfway,  then  it 
resisted.  Red  pressed  the  key  harder,  to  make  sure.  Nope.  'This  wasn’t  the 
lock. 

She  shook  her  head  for  Virginia’s  benefit,  then  tugged.  The  key  wouldn’t 
budge. 

Fear  lanced  through  her  and  she  yanked  hard,  pulling  the  key  free  and 
bumping  the  glass  doorknob.  Red  and  Virginia  froze,  staring  at  the  sleeping 
women.  Matilda’s  snoring  never  broke  rhythm.  But  for  one  second,  Red 
thought  she  saw  Portia’s  eyes,  open  and  clear,  then  shutting  quickly  as  they 
retreated,  quaking  in  their  sneakers. 

“Something  tells  me  this  key  won’t  fit  the  front  door  or  the  back  door,” 
whispered  Red. 

“ Yom  just  don’t  wanna  be  here.” 

Red  giggled,  and  so  did  Virginia,  cupping  a hand  over  her  mouth. 

‘Well,”  said  Virginia,  “we  could  try  the  basement.  It’s  outside.” 

It  wasn’t  such  an  adventure  now,  and  Red  stood  for  a moment  before  nod- 
ding. “Yeah.  We’ve  come  this  far,  right?” 


Red 


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June  1998 


They  nodded  together  and  went  to  the  back  of  Miss  Portia’s  house.  There 
were  steps  leading  down  to  the  door,  and  it  struck  Red  as  odd,  that  the  steps 
were  swept  clean  and  well  used.  Lydia’s  basement  steps  were  grimy.  Just  out 
of  curiosity.  Red  turned  the  knob  on  the  door,  and  to  her  surprise,  it  opened. 

“Try  the  key  anyway,”  said  Virginia. 

Red  pushed  the  key  against  the  lock  and  shook  her  head. 

They  crept  down  the  stairs,  smelling  the  mustiness  of  an  underground 
room — but  it  wasn’t  a room,  it  was  a short  passage  with  a door  off  one  side.  It 
was  dark,  so  dark  aU  Red  could  tell  when  she  put  her  hand  against  the  door 
was  that  it  was  smooth  metal,  cool  to  the  touch.  A snap,  a light  came  on,  and 
her  heart  nearly  leapt  out  of  her  chest.  It  was  only  Virginia,  her  hand  on  the 
light  switch. 

“Look  at  this!”  said  Red.  'There  was  a rocking  chair  next  to  the  door,  and  a 
small  table  which  held  a ring  of  keys  and  a quietly  ticking  clock.  On  the  floor 
next  to  the  chair  was  a small  basket,  filled  with  yam  and  knitting  needles. 

“That’s  my  mama’s  knitting,”  said  Virginia  very  quietly.  “I  have  a lot  of 
sweaters.” 

The  metal  door  was  dull  gray  with  a peephole,  several  heavy  bolts,  a han- 
dle— and  a lock.  Red  put  her  weight  against  one  of  the  bolts  and  it  shot  back 
easily.  Oil  glistened  on  the  workings.  It  was  the  same  with  the  other  one  . . . 
and  then  she  tried  her  key,  which  went  in  easily,  turning  with  buttery 
smoothness.  The  door  swung  in,  and  she  groped  for  a light.  Nothing. 

“It’s  here,”  said  Virginia  from  the  hall.  She  snapped  it  on,  and  they  beheld 
the  tiny,  stark,  concrete  room.  Against  the  far  wall  was  a very  strange  bed 
with  a series  of  hinged  clamps  contoured  to  the  shape  of  a body,  each  with  its 
own  lock.  'There  was  a hght  set  into  the  ceiling,  covered  with  bars. 

The  walls.  Crisscrossed  with  parallel  grooves  . . . Red  crept  into  the  room 
and  ran  her  hand  over  the  jagged  furrows.  “Claw  marks,”  she  whispered.  She 
looked  back  at  the  door,  struck  by  how  thick  the  waU  was  at  the  lintel.  A foot 
deep.  And  as  she  drew  in  breath  she  felt  a pulse  of  unreasoning  fear. 

“Let’s  get  outta  here,”  she  said. 

Virginia  stood  with  her  hand  poised  on  the  light  switch  as  Red  backed  out 
and  locked  up.  She  nodded  and  Virginia  turned  off  that  light,  and  the  one  for 
the  hall.  With  their  last  reserve  of  stealth,  they  pushed  the  basement  door 
shut  and  dashed  for  the  sunlight. 

“White  folks  can  be  cruel,”  said  Matilda  several  days  later,  in  the  after- 
noon. 

Red,  Virginia,  and  Matilda  sat  on  Lydia’s  back  porch,  stringing  pole  beans. 
The  tired  black  fan  heaved  itself  back  and  forth,  its  faint  breeze  hushing  by 
their  clammy  faces.  Matilda  had  put  them  to  work  on  the  bushel  basket  that 
never  seemed  to  get  any  emptier. 

‘Miss  Lydia  isn’t  the  only  lady  I work  for,”  Matilda  elaborated.  “The  other 
ladies,  they’re  supposed  to  serve  me  lunch,  and  all  they  ever  have  on  my  day 
is  hot  dogs.  You  know  those  folks  only  eat  hot  dogs  when  I come,  so  they  don’t 
have  to  serve  me  anything  decent.” 

Matilda  glared  and  sweated,  and  Red  wondered  if  it  was  somehow  her 
fault.  It  took  her  a moment  to  think  of  something  to  say.  ‘My  grandmother — 
Lydia — she  aways  has  good  food.” 

“Yes,  child.  Miss  Lydia’s  a good  woman.  You  think  she  grows  so  many  pole 
beans  just  to  feed  herself  and  Miss  Portia?” 

Red  stared  down  at  the  beans. 


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Sarah  Clemens 


Asimov's 


“All  summer  I put  up  what  she  grows  out  there,  and  she  only  takes  a few  of 
the  jars  for  herself.  The  rest  is  for  my  folks — ^hold  on  there,  you  missed  that 
end.” 

Red  looked  down  and  snapped  the  end,  peeling  the  string  down  the  length 
of  the  bean. 

“Miss  Portia,  now  . . .”  Red  watched  her  tired,  blunt  features  as  she  strug- 
gled with  the  right  words.  “She’s  a woman  who’s  mighty  tired  of  life.  Mightly 
tired.  I wish  Miss  Lydia  would  do  right  by  her.” 

“Yvette?”  Lydia  appeared  around  the  corner.  “Great-grandmother  Portia 
would  like  some  company  while  1 trim  the  hedges.” 

Red  got  up  a little  guiltily,  leaving  Matilda  and  Virginia  with  the  pole 
beans. 

She  sat  across  the  table  in  the  stifling  dining  room  and  couldn’t  think  of  a 
thing  to  say.  Gramma  Portia  clinked  the  little  spoon  against  her  flowered 
china  cup  and  sipped  her  tea.  Red  looked  down  at  hers  and  wondered  if  she 
dared  touch  it.  Cautiously,  she  held  the  handle  and  took  a sip.  No  match  for 
Coca-Cola.  Suddenly  Portia  looked  straight  at  Red  and  said,  “I  think  Lydia’s 
out  of  earshot.  Can  you  check?” 

Red  blinked,  then  crept  to  the  kitchen  door  and  listened.  She  could  hear 
the  snick-snick  of  Lydia’s  hedge  clippers. 

“Ail  clear,”  said  Red  breathlessly,  coming  back  to  her  seat. 

“Well  then,”  said  Portia.  “How  did  you  like  that  httle  box  I gave  you?” 

Red  knew  what  she  meant.  “We  found  the  key.” 

“We?” 

‘Me  and  Virginia.” 

“Virginia  and  7.  Go  on,  then.” 

“We  tried  all  the  doors  we  could,  until  we  finally  thought  about  the  cellar. 
And  we  went  down  there.”  And  saw  the  stark  walls  and  clawmarks. 

“They  keep  me  in  there  when  I have  one  of  my  spells.  No,  don’t  stare  at  me 
so,  it’s  not  cruel.  Just  necessary.  And  I’ve  been  in  smaller  places  . . . much 
smaller.” 

“Like  what?” 

“Did  they  teach  in  school  about  the  time  General  Grant  came  down  to 
Vicksburg  and  laid  siege  to  our  city?” 

“Um  . . . only  a httle,”  said  Red,  to  keep  Portia  going. 

“That  Yankee  Grant  was  a daring  man.  I’ll  give  him  that.  Crossed  the  Mis- 
sissippi and  surrounded  us.  But  he  couldn’t  storm  our  barricades!  So  he  fired 
his  big  guns  at  us,  shells  were  falling  every  day,  but  no  one  talked  of  surren- 
der.” Portia’s  voice  had  grown  softer,  her  face  less  wizened.  “There  I was,  an 
old  maid  of  twenty,  living  with  Papa  and  the  servants  who  had  stayed,  in  our 
house  in  Vicksburg.  A shell  hit  the  roof;  nothing  as  terrible  as  some  of  our 
neighbors,  but  it  stirred  Papa  to  action.  ‘We  shall  dig  into  the  bluffs  like 
everyone  else,’  he  said.  ‘It  would  probably  be  better  for  my  little  Portia,  any- 
way.’ He  thought  me  frail. 

“So  we  had  a cave  dug  for  us,  and  there  we  were,  with  furniture  from  the 
house  and  a nice  rug  on  the  dirt  floor.  And  I confess,  I loved  it.  It  was  a great 
adventure,  and  I could  smell  the  earth  all  around  us  and  hear  the  shells  as  if 
they  were  very,  very  far  away.  . . .” 

Portia’s  eyes  seemed  darker,  like  storm  clouds.  “But  I was  never  frail,  as 
Papa  thought.  It  was  my  colored  maid  Sophie  who  knew  about  me,  how  I got 
bit  by  the  big  wild  dog  back  at  Fairgrove,  and  how,  when  the  moon  is  full,  I 
have  my  spells.  And  while  Papa  sleeps,  I run  out  in  the  streets,  hungry. 


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June  1998 


starving,  like  everyone  else  in  the  city,  only  I can  smell  what  I need,  and  I 
find  the  siege  tunnels  and  trenches  where  our  Confederate  soldiers  wait  for 
me.  So  dark  in  the  tunnels,  black  but  for  the  red-flower  scent  of  their  blood, 
and  I find  one  sleeping  by  himself,  my  nails  are  sharp,  they  shred  him  like  a 
soft  roll,  and  my  teeth  mangle  his  throat  like  ivory  knives — and  the  thick 
nectar  bubbles  up  in  my  jaws  and  he  tastes  so  sweet . . . and  then  I give  him 
to  the  river. . . . 

“Sometimes  they  cry  out.  But  there’s  so  much  pain  here,  men  hurt  and  dy- 
ing. One  scream  in  the  night?” 

There  was  a smell  of  musk  in  the  thick  air.  Portia’s  face  was  radiant  and 
her  eyes  drunk  with  color,  shot  through  with  spears  of  red.  “And  that  is  what 
I am.  Do  you  understand?” 

Red  couldn’t  speak. 

Portia  looked  toward  the  door.  “Why,  Sophie,  come  on  in  here.  Meet 
Yvette.” 

It  was  Matilda  at  the  door,  and  she  took  Red  by  the  hand  as  if  she  were 
four  years  old  and  led  her  to  the  garden,  out  of  Lydia’s  sight,  where  they 
could  sit  in  the  shade  and  look  out  over  the  beautiful  irises,  so  still  in  the 
heat. 

“Did  she  teU  you?”  said  Matilda.  “She  shouldn’t  of  done  that.” 

Red’s  throat  ached  as  tears  rose.  She  was  so  sweaty  she  felt  as  if  her  skin 
would  melt.  She  felt  horrible,  betrayed  and  utterly  alone,  and  had  never 
wanted  her  mother  and  father  so  much  in  her  life. 

“You  ever  seen  one  o’  them  monster  movies?  'They  caU  ’em  werewolves.  And 
aU  the  people  who  saw  the  movie  I went  to,  they  screamed  at  the  scary  parts. 
But  they  weren’t  scary  to  me,  because  Miss  Portia  . . .”  Matilda  pulled  out  a 
clean  handkerchief  from  the  pocket  of  her  apron.  Red  buried  her  face  behind 
it. 

“Lord  knows  what  happened  to  her  is  bad.  But  she  can’t  help  herself.  What 
she’s  got  is  some  disease  that  I don’t  think  us  or  God  understands.  And  it 
keeps  her  alive,  when  all  she  wants  is  peace.” 

“She  gave  me  the  key  to  the  room  in  the  cellar,”  whispered  Red. 

“That’s  where  we  keep  her  when  she  has  her  spells.  She  came  up  from 
Vicksburg  right  after  the  war  on  that  riverboat  Sultana,  and  it  blew  up,  and 
she  and  her  maid  Sophie  got  fished  out  of  the  Mississippi.  When  they  made  it 
back  to  Memphis,  Sophie  told  Miss  Portia’s  people  here.  And  the/ve  kept  her 
hidden  in  little  rooms  for  years  and  years.  She  hasn’t  been  able  to  get  out  and 
do  harm.  And  she’s  so  old  now  ...  no  one  from  the  outside  knows  she’s  still 
alive.  Your  own  mother  doesn’t  know  what  Miss  Portia  is.  When  she  was  a Ht- 
tle  girl.  Miss  Lydia  sent  your  mother  away  to  school.  Which  I can’t  do  with 
my  Virginia,”  said  Matilda  in  that  voice  she  had  used  when  she  talked  about 
the  cruelty  of  whites  to  their  maids.  “You’re  the  last  Tucker  female.  You  have 
a right  to  know.” 

It  was  too  much  of  a burden,  sitting  across  from  Lydia  at  breakfast  the 
next  morning  and  pretending  to  be  a carefree  little  girl.  Mercifully,  her 
grandmother  didn’t  notice  the  haunted  look  on  Red’s  face,  or  that  she  picked 
at  her  food  because  there  was  a heavy  stone  at  her  center.  One  glance  and 
her  mother  would  have  known. 

So  Red  told  Virginia. 

“Does  she  really  tiun  into  a wolf?" 

‘Tes!  Even  Matil— even  your  mother  says  so.” 


82 


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“Mama’s  been  with  this  family  since  before  I was  born.  And  my  great- 
great-grandmother  was  named  Sophie.  Mama  works  at  other  people’s  hous- 
es, but  not  like  here.  She  practically  lives  here.  She  must  have  known  about 
this  for  a long,  long  time.” 

“And  maybe  your  grandmother  before  her.” 

“I’ll  bet!  You  know.  Mama  doesn’t  laugh  a lot.  Sometimes  she  says  I better 
laugh  while  I can.” 

“Maybe,”  said  Red,  “she  just  means  that  your  life  will  be  hard  . . . your  be- 
ing a negro.” 

Virginia  gravely  shook  her  head.  “It’s  more  than  that.  My  Aunt  Mary 
works  for  some  awful  mean  people.  But  she  stiU  laughs  and  makes  jokes  and 
says  you  can’t  let  life  get  you  down — and  that  my  generation  will  have  it  bet- 
ter. Mama  . . . well,  if  she’s  known  about  this  all  her  life,  it  would  explain  a 
lot.” 

“Our  two  families  go  back  a long  way.” 

“We’re  practically  sisters,”  grinned  Virginia. 

Red  grinned  back  and  reahzed  the  weight  had  lightened  as  she  talked  to 
Virginia.  Yesterday,  between  one  heat-thickened  moment  and  the  next.  Red 
had  met  a monster,  and  life  was  full  of  dark  corners.  But  now  she  could  bear 
it,  if  Portia  wanted  to  see  her  again. 

“I’m  not  going  to  be  your  maid,”  said  Virginia.  “When  I grow  up.” 

“Well,  of  course  you  aren’t.  What  are  you  going  to  do?” 

“Dunno  yet.  I’ll  go  to  college.” 

They  sat  in  contemplative  silence.  College  was  further  off  than  anjd;hing 
they  could  think  of,  and  for  a moment  it  awed  them  more  than  the  werewolf 
next  door. 

Red  drifted  thoughtfully  into  Lydia’s  kitchen  and  heard  her  on  the  phone, 
heard  a name  to  make  her  heart  pound.  She  was  talking  to  Daddy. 

“. . . well,  Frank,  it  was  nothing  really.  I just  put  in  a good  word. . . .” 

Red  paused  in  the  breakfast  nook,  some  instinct  making  her  hold  back  and 
listen. 

“I  think  you  got  the  job  because  you’re  a good  teacher,  not  because  the  dean 
of  the  department  is  a schoolmate  from  Randolph-Macon.  From  back  before 
the  Punic  Wars.” 

Red  waited  out  the  silent  space  of  her  father’s  response. 

“.  . . maybe  it  is  time  we  were  on  more  cordial  footing.  Frank — Frank,  it 
comes  down  to  this;  I knew  you  wanted  the  job,  I thought  it  would  be  good  for 
the  three  of  you  to  move — up  there  . . . never  mind  why  . . . and  Miss  Dela- 
courte  would  never  have  hired  you  if  she  didn’t  think  you  were  the  best  man 
for  the  job.  I just  wanted  the  best  for  the  three  of  you.  Oh,  let  me  go  get 
Yvette,  and  not  another  word  about  it.  Yvette!” 

Red  tiptoed  back  to  the  kitchen,  banged  the  door  and  ran  into  the  dining 
room. 

She  was  part  of  the  enclave  now,  at  home  with  the  stately  hedges,  em- 
braced by  the  emerald  tunnel.  She  had  prowled  the  terrible  room,  shared  se- 
crets with  a friend.  Crying  on  the  pillow  that  first  night  seemed  a remote 
dream  as  Red  sat  across  from  Portia  the  next  day. 

“Dear  child,”  said  Portia,  “have  you  pulled  yourself  together  yet?” 

“I  guess.” 

“I  could  tell  you  were  a girl  with  sand.” 


Red 


83 


June  1998 


“Sand?” 

“Grit,  determination,  strength.”  Portia  looked  at  her  with  those  pale  hlue 
eyes  and  the  suggestion  of  a smile  shadowed  her  mouth. 

Portia  was  beautiful  when  she  was  young,  reahzed  Red. 

‘1  am  a one  hundred  and  twenty-year-old  werewolf.  But  I don’t  change  into 
a wolf  like  I used  to,  because  when  the  fuU  moon  comes  around,  Lydia  takes 
me  down  to  that  little  room  with  no  windows,  and  I can’t  see  the  moon.  I just 
get  wild  and  sick,  and  I am  told  my  nails  and  teeth  get  sharper. 

“And  here’s  the  thing:  if  Lydia  gets  too  old,  whose  turn  do  you  think  it  will 
be  to  take  care  of  me?  Your  mother  or  you,  and  that  colored  girl.” 

Red  shook  her  head  emphatically.  “Grandma  Lydia  got  my  father  a job  up 
north  so  my  mother  wouldn’t  have  to  take  care  of  you.  And  Virginia  and  me 
can’t  do  it.  We’re  going  to  college.” 

“Virginia  and  I ..  . now  that’s  interesting,  Lydia  sending  you  up  north.” 
She  seemed  far  away  and  Red  fiddled  anxiously  with  her  teacup. 

Portia  slapped  the  table  with  the  flat  of  her  hand.  Red  jumped  and 
knocked  over  her  tea,  but  the  old  woman  didn’t  notice.  “I  see  it  now.  She’s  go- 
ing to  kill  me.” 

“What!” 

“Oh,  not  anytime  soon.  She  wants  me  to  hang  on  for  a long  time,  because 
that’s  her  revenge.  But  when  she  gets  so  old  that  caring  for  me  is  a real  bur- 
den, she’ll  take  me  outside  on  a full  moon.  I think  changing  into  a wolf  would 
kill  me  at  my  age.” 

Red  struggled  to  comprehend.  “Revenge  for  what?” 

Portia  wasn’t  Ustening.  “We  will  beat  her  to  the  punch.  Pm  going  to  kiU  my- 
self on  the  next  fuU  moon,  two  days  off.” 

Red  stared  at  Portia.  “Great-grandmother  Portia,  I’ve  heard  it’s  wrong — ” 

“ — ^to  kill  yourself?”  Portia  turned  her  hands  over  and  Red  looked  at  her 
leathery  palms  and  sharp  little  nails.  “Let  the  truth  be  told.  I’m  not  your 
great-grandmother.  Oh,  I’m  a 'Tucker,  but  your  hne  descends  from  my  sister, 
who  moved  to  Memphis  before  the  war.  When  you  have  a monster  inside,  like 
I do,  you  don’t  love  men  or  bear  their  children,  and  people  die  when  they  get 
too  near.  'They  say  your  grandfather  Earl  fell  accidentally,  or  that  the  boiler 
of  the  Sultana  blew  up  accidentally,  killing  eighteen  hundred  people,  but  it’s 
not  so.  If  I hadn’t  been  there,  neither  thing  would  have  happened.” 

'The  hairs  on  Red’s  arms  were  standing  up. 

“I  welcome  death,”  said  Portia.  “Death  is  a part  of  me,  like  the  color  of  my 
eyes.” 

'The  day  of  the  fvdl  moon  found  Red  packing  for  the  next  day’s  flight.  She 
was  fitting  Portia’s  small  box  into  a corner  of  her  suitcase  when  the  phone 
rang.  Red  heard  Lydia  pick  up  and  thought  nothing  of  it  until  she  heard  her 
grandmother  gasp. 

“Matilda!  Matilda,  come  to  the  phone  right  away!” 

As  Red  heard  the  heavier  tread  in  the  hall,  Lydia  came  into  Red’s  room, 
her  arms  crossed  tightly,  her  eyes  blazing.  ‘Tou  might  as  well  hear  this, 
Yvette.  Matilda’s  sister  Mary  has  been  hit  in  the  face  by  a brick.  Two  white 
men  threw  it  from  their  car  as  she  walked  home  from  the  bus  stop.” 

From  the  hall  they  heard  heartbreaking  sobs  and  “Oh,  Lord,  oh  Lord!” 

Red  felt  her  stomach  lurch.  “Is  she  gonna  be  okay?” 

“They  don’t  know.  'That  was  the  doctor,  calling  from  the  hospital.  I’ll  drive 
Matilda  over  there,  you  stay  here  with  Virginia.” 


84 


Sarah  Clemens 


Asimov's 


Red  sat  on  her  bed,  wondering  how  she  was  going  to  face  her  fiiend,  but  it 
was  Matilda  who  came  to  her  door. 

“I  have  to  go  now  and  I don’t  know  when  I’ll  be  back,”  she  said  in  a choked 
voice.  Red  could  hardly  bear  to  look  at  her  face,  the  tears  soaking  into  the 
weary  wrinkles.  “Maybe  in  a couple  of  hours,  maybe  not  for  a while.”  She 
pulled  a vial  of  green  liquid  wrapped  in  yellowed  paper  out  of  her  apron 
pocket  and  handed  it  to  Red.  The  paper  had  words  written  in  a spidery 
scrawl:  belladonna,  henbane,  jimson  weed,  wormwood.  Ground  and  mixed 
with  olive  oil,  turpentine  and  hog  fat  and  the  fat  of  an  unchristened  infant. 

“It’ll  have  to  do  without  that  last  part.  I’ve  been  growing  those  plants  by 
the  tracks,  waiting  for  her  to  give  me  the  word.  You  go  take  that  bottle  to 
Miss  Portia  before  tonight.  You’re  the  last  Tucker  and  maybe  this  is  the  way 
it’s  supposed  to  be.” 

Matilda  left.  Lydia  was  starting  the  car  out  front,  and  Red  realized  Vir- 
ginia had  come  into  her  room. 

“I’m  sorry,”  said  Red,  and  she  meant  it  to  go  beyond  the  single  terrible  in- 
cident that  sent  Matilda  hurrying  to  the  hospital. 

“Mama  says  it’s  because  all  those  people  went  on  that  march  to  Washing- 
ton last  week.  If  they’d  just  stayed  home  nobody  would  be  out  throwing 
bricks.”  Virginia’s  eyes  seemed  to  bum.  “But  what  those  white  boys  did  was 
wrong.  Flat-out  wrong.” 

“Yes.”  After  a mournful  silence  Red  said,  “I  have  to  take  this  bottle  to  Miss 
Portia.  Your  mother  told  me  I have  to.” 

“She  told  me,  too.”  said  Virginia,  swiping  roughly  at  her  eyes.  ‘TU  go  with 
you.” 

In  the  soft,  golden  afternoon.  Red  and  Virginia  emerged  on  the  other  side 
and  mounted  the  steps  to  the  old  house,  swinging  open  the  screen  door.  Por- 
tia appeared  in  the  kitchen  as  silently  as  a ghost. 

“What  have  you  got  there?”  she  asked. 

Red  held  up  the  vial. 

“At  long  last,”  her  mellifluous  voice  sounded  distant. 

“Miss  Portia,”  said  Virginia,  “it  might  be  hard  on  Red  if  she  hands  that  to 
you  by  herself.”  Virginia  clasped  her  hand  over  Red’s  and  together  they 
placed  the  vial  in  Portia’s  hands. 

“What  will  this  do?”  whispered  Red. 

“It  will  change  me  into  a wolf  and  I won’t  be  able  to  change  back.  It  won’t 
be  painful,  but  it  will  be  more  exertion  than  the  monster  can  bear,  and  she 
won’t  last  long.  Do  you  want  to  watch  me  drink  ?” 

The  two  girls  looked  at  each  other.  We’ve  come  this  far. 

Portia  uncorked  the  httle  vial,  held  it  to  her  bps,  then  paused.  She  smiled 
and  held  it  out,  saluting  them.  Then  she  tilted  it  to  her  mouth,  grimacing  at 
the  taste. 

“Goodbye,”  she  said.  “Thank  you,  with  every  fiber  of  my  being.  Remember 
me  like  this  when  you  see  it  tonight.” 

They  sat  together  by  the  telephone,  as  silent  in  Lydia’s  house  as  Portia  was 
next  door.  The  sound  of  the  bell  cracked  the  air,  and  Red  picked  it  up  before 
the  first  ring  had  finished. 

‘Tvette,  we  can  all  breathe  easy.  Mary  got  some  bad  cuts  and  had  to  have 
some  stitches,  but  the  doctor  doesn’t  think  there’s  a concussion.  'They’re  go- 
ing to  keep  her  overnight  just  to  be  sure.  So  you  tell  Virginia.  Matilda  and  I 


Red 


85 


June  1998 


will  be  home  soon.  We’ll  all  eat  some  supper,  then  you  two  can  stay  at  my 
house  while  we  look  after  Great-grandmother  Portia.  It’s  one  of  those  nights 
when  she’ll  have  a spell.” 

From  the  abundant  foliage  the  two  girls  watched  Lydia  and  Matilda  go 
into  Portia’s  house.  Matilda  came  for  them  when  it  was  dark  and  the  moon 
had  risen,  and  led  them  to  the  cellar.  Portia  lay  on  the  perverse  bed,  clamped 
in  a prone  position.  She  writhed  against  the  restraints,  her  tidy  braid  unrav- 
eled, the  strings  of  white  hair  lashing  across  her  face. 

“My  God,  Matilda,  what  are  those  girls  doing  here?”  Lydia  almost  dropped 
the  plastic  cup  in  her  hands.  She  was  completely  undone,  bereft  of  elegance 
and  composure. 

“They’ve  come  to  see  Miss  Portia  turn  into  a wolf.” 

Lydia  leaned  stiffly  against  the  wall.  ‘Tou  told  them,”  she  said,  and  Ked 
was  amazed  at  the  pain  in  her  face. 

“They — have — the — right.'”  gasped  Portia. 

Everyone  turned  and  looked  at  her,  and  Lydia  cried  out.  Portia’s  face  was 
growing  coarse  fur,  as  were  her  hands  and  feet;  aU  that  could  be  seen  peeking 
out  from  an  old  nightgown. 

“I  took  a draught,”  she  whispered,  and  then  she  was  lost  to  them,  shudder- 
ing and  shaking. 

Lydia  looked  straight  at  Matilda,  who  stared  back  unflinchingly,  as  if  she 
had  borrowed  some  of  the  red  light  from  Portia’s  eyes. 

“I  see,”  said  Lydia.  “It’s  over,  and  I had  no  say  in  it.”  She  squeezed  her  eyes 
shut  and  turned  away  from  them  as  she  wept. 

'They  watched  over  Portia,  silently,  as  she  twisted  and  strained  against  the 
clamps,  the  room  filling  with  the  musk  of  a wolf. 

“It’s  time  to  leave,”  said  Lydia  faintly. 

They  all  backed  out  of  the  room  and  bolted  it  behind  them. 

Lydia  wouldn’t  let  Red  look  through  the  peephole.  They  could  hear  Portia 
gasping,  scrabbling  against  the  restraints  of  the  bed.  The  silence  that  fol- 
lowed was  hollow,  unearthly.  Then  came  a low  growl,  guttural  and  coarse  as 
gravel — and  an  explosive,  feral  scream,  coupled  with  the  sound  of  wood  sphn- 
tering  and  metal  whanging  against  concrete.  Red  found  herself  pressed 
against  the  far  wall  of  the  corridor,  gripping  Lydia  hke  a lifeline.  Lydia  fold- 
ed her  arms  around  her,  softly.  The  monster  howled  over  and  over,  hoarse, 
lusting  wails,  and  her  claws  screeched  against  the  walls,  sending  shivers  to 
the  pit  of  Red’s  stomach.  They  waited  out  the  rage  behind  the  walls,  ex- 
hausted by  the  time  the  snarls  and  thuds  of  the  werewolf’s  body  lessened  and 
stopped.  Finally,  Lydia  released  Red  and  peered  through  the  peephole.  She 
was  very  still  for  a moment,  then  she  shot  back  the  bolts. 

They  found  her  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  her  legs  splayed  to  hold  her  up. 
Portia  was  just  an  old  wolf  now,  covered  with  white  fur  that  had  a worn  yel- 
low luster.  Her  eyes  were  blue,  stark  against  black  lids,  and  her  bony  frame 
seemed  fragile  as  it  heaved  breath,  making  Red  want  to  go  forward  and  hold 
her  up.  But  caution  held  her  back.  And  Lydia’s  hand. 

“We  can  take  her  outside  now.  Miss  Lydia.  She’s  through  changing  for 
good,”  said  Matilda. 

They  bore  Portia  into  the  radiant  night,  collared  and  cross-tied,  and  the  an- 
cient wolf  turned  her  muzzle  to  the  moon,  drinking  in  its  luminosity.  Red 
thought  about  the  trenches  in  Vicksburg  where  this  werewolf  had  savaged 


86 


Sarah  Clemens 


Asimov's 


Confederates,  her  eyes  glowing  as  they  glowed  now,  full  of  moon-magic  and 
bloodlust.  She  could  hear  the  wolves  at  the  zoo,  howling  like  demons. 

They  led  her  to  a grassy  spot  by  the  hedges  and  she  stood  silhouetted 
against  the  moonlight. 

“She  killed  Earl  when  your  mother  was  very  young,”  said  Lydia.  “He  got 
careless  on  the  night  of  a full  moon.  That’s  why  I kept  her  alive  all  these 
years,  she  killed  my  husband’’ 

They  listened  to  the  wolves  howl  frantically  against  the  counterpoint  of 
deep  lion  roars. 

Portia’s  breath  came  out  in  wheezes. 

“She’s  dying,  at  last,”  said  Lydia,  and  Red  could  hear  sorrow  in  her  voice. 

Portia  drew  herself  up,  her  coat  bristling  with  bright  needles  of  light.  She 
threw  her  head  to  the  moon  and  gave  one  last  howl,  harrowing  and  rich,  then 
she  fell.  It  took  Red  a moment  to  realize  that  the  wolves  at  the  zoo  had  be- 
come silent.  Then,  they  started  again,  taking  up  the  dirge;  farewell  to  a fear- 
ful and  mighty  one. 

Lydia  was  in  the  breakfast  nook,  the  gloves  she  used  for  heavy  digging  laid 
on  the  counter.  She  was  going  at  The  Commercial  Appeal  with  the  kitchen 
scissors.  “Article  in  the  paper  says  people  all  over  Overton  Park  were  calling 
in  to  complain  about  the  wolves  and  hons.  Not  doubt  the  Press  Scimitar  will 
run  something  this  afternoon.”  She  put  the  short  article  inside  a leather- 
bound  book. 

Red  slid  into  the  chair  opposite  her  grandmother. 

“My  whole  life  revolved  around  taking  care  of  her,  stretching  her  miserable 
life  out  as  long  as  I could,”  said  Lydia,  her  eyes  distant.  ‘T  should  have  let  her 
go  years  ago.  I was  so  angry  when  she  killed  Earl.  He  was  a good  man, 
Yvette,  but  I don’t  think  he  ever  really  believed,  and  he  got  careless.  And 
now,  I don’t  feel  angry,  just . . . sad.  Maybe  I’ll  take  a little  vacation,  visit  you 
all  in  New  York.” 

Daddy  will  love  every  minute  of  that,  thought  Red. 

Lydia  leaned  forward  to  get  up,  then  sat  down  again.  ‘Yvette.  Portia  left  a 
diary.  She  kept  it  faithfully  up  until  the  end.”  Lydia’s  hand  was  resting  on 
the  little  leather-boimd  book. 

A hunger  swept  through  Red. 

“When  you’re  older,  it’s  yours,”  said  Lydia.  ‘You’ve  learned  a lot  already, 
but  you’ve  got  some  growing  to  do  before  most  of  this  wiU  make  sense  to  you. 
Goodness,  it  seems  like  a long  time  ago  that  we  sat  talking  at  the  dining- 
room table  . . . right  now,  I think  you  should  go  say  good-bye  to  Virginia.” 

How  old  was  older? 

Virginia  was  waiting  at  the  bench. 

“Portia  had  a diary!” 

Virginia’s  eyes  were  wide.  “A  diary?  Did  Miss  Lydia  give  it  to  you?” 

“No  . . . she  said  I had  to  get  older?’ 

'They  sat  back,  frustrated. 

‘I’ll  have  to  go  to  college  up  there,”  said  Virginia  finally,  “so  that  when  Miss 
Lydia  gives  it  to  you,  we  can  read  it  together.” 

‘Yes!  And  we  can  go  to  the  same  school  and  walk  around  knowing  we  have 
this  big  secret.  And  we  won’t  tell  anyone.  Not  even  our  boyfriends.” 

“Deal?” 

“Deal!” 

They  never  said  good-bye.  • 


Red 


87 


Ian  McDonald 


llustration  by  Oanyl  Elliott 


THE  DAYS  OF 
SOLOMON  GORSKY 

Ian  McDonald's  new  tale,  which  begins  with  a 
passionate  love  story  and  takes  us  to  the  end  of 
the  universe  and  beyond,  is  set  against  the  same 
background  as  his  1 995  novel  Terminal  Cafe 
(Bantam).  The  author's  latest  SF  novel,  Kiiinya, 
is  just  out  from  Gollancr  (UK).  It's  a sequel  to 
Evolution's  Shore,  a book  that  Bantam 
published  in  paperback  early 
last  year.  Mr.  McOonold  is 
currently  writing  Stupid  Seasor 
his  first  mainstrearn  novel. 


June  1998 


Monday 

Sol  stripped  the  gear  on  the  trail  over  Blood  of  Christ  Mountain.  Click- 
shifted  down  to  sixth  for  the  steep  push  up  to  the  ridge,  and  there  was  no 
sixth.  No  fifth,  no  fourth;  nothing,  down  to  zero. 

Elena  was  already  up  on  the  divide,  laughing  at  him  pushing  and  sweat- 
ing up  through  the  pines,  muscles  twisted  and  knotted  like  the  trunks  of  the 
primeval  bristlecones,  tubes  and  tendons  straining  like  bridge  cable.  Then 
she  saw  the  gear  train  sheared  through  and  spinning  free. 

They’d  given  the  bikes  a good  hard  kicking  down  in  the  desert  mountains 
south  of  Nogales.  Two  thousand  apiece,  but  the  salesperson  had  sworn  on  the 
virginity  of  all  his  unmarried  sisters  that  these  MTBs  would  go  anywhere,  do 
anything  you  wanted.  Climb  straight  up  El  Capitan,  if  that  was  what  you 
needed  of  them.  Now  they  were  five  days  on  the  trail — ^three  from  the  nearest 
Dirt  Loho  dealership,  so  Elena’s  palmtop  told  her — and  a gear  train  had  bro- 
ken clean  in  half.  Ten  more  days,  four  hundred  more  miles,  fifty  more  moun- 
tains for  Solomon  Gursky,  in  high  gear. 

“Should  have  been  prepared  for  this,  engineer,”  Elena  said. 

‘Two  thousand  a bike,  you  shouldn’t  need  to,”  Solomon  Gursky  replied.  It 
was  early  afternoon  up  on  Blood  of  Christ  Mountain,  high  and  hot  and 
resinous  with  the  scent  of  the  old,  old  pines.  There  was  haze  down  in  the  val- 
ley they  had  come  from,  and  in  the  one  they  were  riding  to.  “And  you  know 
I’m  not  that  kind  of  engineer.  My  gears  are  a lot  smaller.  And  they  don’t 
break.” 

Elena  knew  what  kind  of  engineer  he  was,  as  he  knew  what  kind  of  doctor 
she  was.  But  the  thing  was  new  between  them  and  at  the  stage  where  re- 
search colleagues  who  surprise  themselves  by  becoming  lovers  like  to  pretend 
that  they  are  mysteries  to  each  other. 

Elena’s  palmtop  map  showed  a settlement  five  miles  down  the  valley.  It 
was  called  Redencion.  It  might  be  the  kind  of  place  they  could  get  welding 
done  quick  and  good  for  norte  dollars. 

“Be  happy,  it’s  downhill,”  Elena  said  as  she  swung  her  electric-blue  padded 
ass  onto  the  saddle  and  plunged  down  off  the  ridge.  One  second  later,  Sol 
Gursky  in  his  shirt  and  shorts  and  shoes  and  shades  and  helmet  came  tear- 
ing after  her  through  the  scrub  sage.  The  thing  between  them  was  stiU  at  the 
stage  where  desire  can  flare  at  a flash  of  electric-blue  lycra -covered  ass. 

Redencion  it  was,  of  the  kind  you  get  in  the  border  mountains;  of  gas  and 
food  and  trailers  to  hire  by  the  night,  or  the  week,  or,  if  you  have  absolutely 
nowhere  else  to  go,  the  lifetime;  of  truck  stops  and  recreational  Jacuzzis  at 
night  under  the  herder  country  stars.  No  welding.  Something  better.  The 
many -branched  saguaro  of  a solar  tree  was  the  first  thing  of  Redencion  the 
travelers  saw  lift  out  of  the  heat  haze  as  they  came  in  along  the  old,  cracked, 
empty  highway. 

The  factory  was  in  an  ugly  block  annex  behind  the  gas  and  food.  A truck 
driver  followed  Sol  and  Elena  round  the  back,  entranced  by  these  fantastic 
macaw-bright  creatures  who  kept  their  eyes  hidden  behind  wrap-around 
shades.  He  was  chewing  a sandwich.  He  had  nothing  better  to  do  in  Reden- 
cion on  a hot  Monday  afternoon.  Jorge,  the  proprietor,  looked  too  young  and 
ambitious  to  be  pushing  gas,  food,  trailers,  and  molecules  in  Redencion  on 
any  afternoon.  He  was  thirty-wise,  dark,  serious.  There  was  something  tight- 
wound  about  him.  Elena  said  in  English  that  he  had  the  look  of  a man  of  sor- 
rows. But  he  took  the  broken  gear  train  seriously,  and  helped  Sol  remove  it 


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from  the  back  wheel.  He  looked  at  the  smooth,  clean  shear  plane  with  admi- 
ration. 

‘This  I can  do,”  he  declared.  ‘Take  an  hour,  hour  and  a half.  Meantime, 
maybe  you’d  like  to  take  a Jacuzzi?”  This,  wrinkling  his  nose,  downwind  of 
two  MTBers  come  over  Blood  of  Christ  Mountain  in  the  heat  of  the  day.  The 
truck  driver  grinned.  Elena  scowled.  “Very  private,”  insisted  Jorge  the 
nanofacturer. 

“Something  to  drink?”  Elena  suggested. 

“Sure.  Coke,  Sprite,  beer,  agua  minerale.  In  the  shop.” 

Elena  went  the  long  way  around  the  trucker  to  investigate  the  cooler.  Sol 
followed  Jorge  into  the  factory  and  watched  him  set  the  gears  in  the  scanner. 

“Actually,  this  is  my  job,”  Sol  said  to  make  conversation  as  the  lasers 
mapped  the  geometry  of  the  ziggurat  of  cogs  in  three  dimensions.  He  spoke 
Spanish.  Everyone  did.  It  was  the  universal  language  up  in  the  norte  now,  as 
well  as  down  el  sur. 

“You  have  a factory?” 

“I’m  an  engineer.  I build  these  things.  Not  the  scanners,  I mean;  the  tec- 
tors.  I design  them.  A nano-engineer.” 

The  monitor  told  Jorge  the  mapping  was  complete. 

“For  the  Tesler  corporada,”  Sol  added  as  Jorge  called  up  the  processor  sys- 
tem. 

“How  do  you  want  it?” 

“I’d  like  to  know  it’s  not  going  to  do  this  to  me  again.  Can  you  build  it  in  di- 
amond?” 

“All  just  atoms,  friend.” 

Sol  studied  the  processor  chamber.  It  pleased  him  that  they  looked  like 
whisky  stills;  round-bellied,  high-necked,  rising  through  the  roof  into  the 
spreading  fingers  of  the  solar  tree.  Strong  spirits  in  that  still,  spirits  of  the 
vacuum  between  galaxies,  the  cold  of  absolute  zero,  and  the  spirits  of  the  tec- 
tors  moving  through  cold  and  emptiness,  shuffling  atoms.  He  regretted  that 
the  physics  did  not  allow  viewing  windows  in  the  nanofacturers.  Look  down 
through  a pane  of  pure  and  perfect  diamond  at  the  act  of  creation.  Maybe  cre- 
ation was  best  left  unseen,  a mystery.  All  just  atoms,  friend.  Yes,  but  it  was 
what  you  did  with  those  atoms,  where  you  made  them  go.  The  weird 
troilisms  and  manages  you  forced  them  into. 

He  envisioned  the  minuscule  machines,  smaller  than  viruses,  clever  knots 
of  atoms,  scavenging  carbon  through  the  nanofacturer’s  roots  deep  in  the 
earth  of  Redencion,  passing  it  up  the  buckytube  conduits  to  the  processor 
chamber,  weaving  it  into  diamond  of  his  own  shaping. 

Alchemy. 

Diamond  gears. 

Sol  Gursky  shivered  in  his  light  biking  clothes,  touched  by  the  intellectual 
chill  of  the  nanoprocessor. 

“This  is  one  of  mine,”  he  called  to  Jorge.  “I  designed  the  tectors.” 

“I  wouldn’t  know.”  Jorge  fetched  beers  from  a crate  on  the  factory  floor, 
opened  them  in  the  door.  “I  bought  the  whole  place  from  a guy  two  years 
back.  Went  up  north,  to  the  Tres  Valles.  You  from  there?” 

The  beer  was  cold.  In  the  deeper,  darker  cold  of  the  reactor  chamber,  the 
nanomachines  swarmed.  Sol  Gursky  held  his  arms  out:  Jesus  of  the  MTB 
wear. 

“Isn’t  everyone?” 

“Not  yet.  So,  who  was  it  you  said  you  work  for?  Nanosis?  Ewart-OzWest?” 


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‘Tesler  Corp.  I head  up  a research  group  into  biological  analogs.” 

“Never  heard  of  them.” 

You  will,  was  what  Solomon  Gursky  would  have  said,  but  for  the  scream. 

Elena’s  scream. 

Not,  he  thought  as  he  ran,  that  he  had  heard  Elena’s  scream — the  thing 
was  not  supposed  to  be  at  that  stage— but  he  knew  it  could  not  belong  to  any- 
one else. 

She  was  standing  in  the  open  back  door  of  the  gas  and  food,  pale  and  shaky 
in  the  high  bright  light. 

“I’m  sorry,”  she  said.  ‘1  just  wanted  to  get  some  water.  There  wasn’t  any  in 
the  cooler,  and  I didn’t  want  Coke.  I just  wanted  to  get  some  water  from  the 
faucet.” 

He  was  aware  that  Jorge  was  behind  him  as  he  went  into  the  kitchen.  Man 
mess:  twenty  coffee  mugs,  doughnut  boxes,  beer  cans,  and  milk  cartons. 
Spoons,  knives,  forks.  He  did  that  too,  and  Elena  told  him  off  for  having  to 
take  a clean  one  every  time. 

Then  he  saw  the  figures  through  the  open  door. 

Somewhere,  Jorge  was  saying,  “Please,  this  is  my  home.” 

There  were  three  of  them;  a good-looking,  hard-worked  woman,  and  two 
little  girls,  one  newly  school-age,  the  other  not  long  on  her  feet.  They  sat  in 
chairs,  hands  on  thighs.  They  looked  straight  ahead. 

It  was  only  because  they  did  not  blink,  that  their  bodies  did  not  rock  gently 
to  the  tick  of  pulse  and  breath,  that  Sol  could  understand. 

The  color  was  perfect.  He  touched  the  woman’s  cheek,  the  coil  of  dark  hair 
that  fell  across  it.  Warm  soft.  Like  a woman’s  should  feel.  Texture  like  skin. 
His  fingertips  left  a line  in  dust. 

They  sat  unbhnking,  unmoving,  the  woman  and  her  children,  enshrined  in 
their  own  memorabilia.  Photographs,  toys,  little  pieces  of  jewelry,  loved 
books  and  ornaments,  combs,  mirrors.  Pictures  and  clothes.  Things  that 
make  up  a life.  Sol  walked  among  the  figures  and  their  things,  knowing  that 
he  trespassed  in  sacred  space,  but  irresistibly  drawn  by  the  simulacra. 

“They  were  yours?”  Elena  was  saying  somewhere.  And  Jorge  was  nodding, 
and  his  mouth  was  working  but  no  words  were  manufactured.  “I’m  sorry.  I’m 
so  sorry.” 

‘They  said  it  was  a blow-out.”  Jorge  finally  said.  “You  know,  those  tires 
they  say  repair  themselves,  so  they  never  blow  out?  They  blew  out.  They 
went  right  over  the  barrier,  upside  down.  That’s  what  the  truck  driver  said. 
Right  over,  and  he  could  see  them  all,  upside  down.  Like  they  were  frozen  in 
time,  you  understand?”  He  paused. 

T went  kind  of  dark  for  a long  time  after  that;  a lot  crazy,  you  know?  When 
I could  see  things  again,  I bought  this  with  the  insurance  and  the  compensa- 
tion. Like  I say,  it’s  all  just  atoms,  friend.  Putting  them  in  the  right  order. 
Making  them  go  where  you  want,  do  what  you  want.” 

“I’m  sorry  we  intruded,”  Elena  said,  but  Solomon  Gursky  was  standing 
there  among  the  reconstructed  dead  and  the  look  on  his  face  was  that  of  a 
man  seeing  something  far  beyond  what  is  in  front  of  him,  aU  the  way  to  God. 

“Folk  out  here  are  accommodating.”  But  Jorge’s  smile  was  a tear  of  su- 
tures. ‘You  can’t  live  in  a place  hke  this  if  you  weren’t  a little  crazy  or  lost.” 

“She  was  very  beautiful,”  Elena  said. 

“She  is.” 

Dust  sparkled  in  the  float  of  afternoon  hght  through  the  window. 

“Sol?” 


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‘Teah.  Coming.” 

The  diamond  gears  were  out  of  the  tank  in  twenty-five  minutes.  Jorge 
helped  Sol  fit  them  to  the  two  thousand  norte  dollar  bike.  Then  Sol  rode 
around  the  factory  and  the  gas-food-trailer  house  where  the  icons  of  the  dead 
sat  unblinking  under  the  slow  fall  of  dust.  He  clicked  the  gears  up  and 
clicked  them  down.  One  two  three  four  five  six.  Six  five  four  three  two  one. 
Then  he  paid  Jorge  fifty  norte,  which  was  all  he  asked  for  his  diamond.  Elena 
waved  to  him  as  they  rode  down  the  highway  out  of  Redencion. 

They  made  love  by  firelight  on  the  top  of  Blessed  Virgin  Mountain,  on  the 
pine  needles,  under  the  stars.  That  was  the  stage  they  were  at:  ravenous,  un- 
sehconscious,  discovering.  The  old  deaths,  down  the  valley  behind  them,  gave 
them  urgency.  Afterward,  he  was  quiet  and  withdrawn,  and  when  she  asked 
what  he  was  thinking  about,  he  said,  “The  resurrection  of  the  dead.” 

“But  they  weren’t  resurrected,”  she  said,  knowing  instantly  what  he 
meant,  for  it  haunted  her  too,  up  on  their  starry  mountain.  “They  were  just 
representations,  hke  a painting  or  a photograph.  Sculpted  memories.  Simula- 
tions.” 

“But  they  were  real  for  himr  Sol  rolled  onto  his  back  to  gaze  at  the  warm 
stars  of  the  border.  “He  told  me  he  talked  to  them.  If  his  nanofactory  could 
have  made  them  move  and  breathe  and  talk  back,  he’d  have  done  it,  and  who 
could  have  said  that  they  weren’t  real?” 

He  felt  Elena  shiver  against  his  flesh. 

“What  is  it?” 

“Just  thinking  about  those  faces,  and  imagining  them  in  the  reactor  cham- 
ber, in  the  cold  and  the  emptiness,  with  the  tectors  crawling  over  them.” 

“Yeah.” 

Neither  spoke  for  a time  long  enough  to  see  the  stars  move.  'Then  Solomon 
Gursky  felt  the  heat  stir  in  him  again  and  he  turned  to  Elena  and  felt  the 
warmth  of  her  meat,  hungry  for  his  second  little  death. 


Tuesday 

Jesus  was  getting  fractious  in  the  plastic  cat  carrier;  heaving  from  side  to 
side,  shaking  the  grille. 

Sol  Gursky  set  the  carrier  on  the  landing  mesh  and  searched  the  ochre 
smog  haze  for  the  incoming  liftercraft.  Photochromic  molecules  bonded  to  his 
irises  polarized:  another  hot,  bright,  poisonous  day  in  the  'TVMA. 

Jesus  was  shrieking  now. 

“Shut  the  hell  up,”  Sol  Gursky  hissed.  He  kicked  the  cat  carrier.  Jesus  gib- 
bered and  thrust  her  arms  through  the  grille,  grasping  at  freedom. 

“Hey,  it’s  only  a monkey,”  Elena  said. 

But  that  was  the  thing.  Monkeys,  by  being  monkeys,  annoyed  him.  Fre- 
quently enraged  him.  Little  homunculus  things  masquerading  as  human. 
Clever  little  fingers,  wise  little  eyes,  expressive  little  faces.  Nothing  but 
dumb  animal  behind  that  face,  running  those  so-human  fingers. 

He  knew  his  anger  at  monkeys  was  irrational.  But  he’d  still  enjoyed  killing 
Jesus,  taped  wide  open  on  the  pure  white  slab.  Swab,  shave,  slip  the  needle. 

Of  course,  she  had  not  been  Jesus  then.  Just  Rhesus;  nameless,  a tool 
made  out  of  meat.  Experiment  625G. 

It  was  probably  the  smog  that  was  making  her  scream.  Should  have  got 
her  one  of  those  goggle  things  for  walking  poodles.  But  she  would  have  just 


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torn  it  off  with  her  clever  little  human  fingers.  Clever  enough  to  be  dumb, 
monkey-thing. 

Elena  was  kneeling  down,  playing  baby-fingers  with  the  clutching  fists 
thrust  through  the  bars. 

“It’ll  bite  you.” 

His  hand  still  throbbed.  Dripping,  shivering,  and  spastic  from  the  tank,  Je- 
sus had  still  possessed  enough  motor  control  to  turn  her  head  and  lay  his 
thumb  open  to  the  bone.  Vampire  monkey:  the  undead  appetite  for  blood. 
Bastard  thing.  He  would  have  enjoyed  killing  it  again,  if  it  were  still  killable. 

All  three  on  the  landing  grid  looked  up  at  the  sound  of  lifter  engines  de- 
taching themselves  from  the  aural  bed  rock  of  two  million  cars.  The  ship  was 
coming  in  from  the  south,  across  the  valley  from  the  big  site  down  on  Hoover 
where  the  new  corporada  headquarters  was  growing  itself  out  of  the  fault 
line.  It  came  low  and  fast,  nose  down,  ass  up,  like  a big  bug  that  thrives  on 
the  taste  of  hydrocarbons  in  its  spiracles.  The  backwash  from  its  jets  flus- 
tered the  palm  trees  as  it  configured  into  vertical  mode  and  came  down  on 
the  research  facility  pad.  Sol  Gursky  and  Elena  Asado  shielded  their  sun- 
screened  eyes  from  fl3dng  grit  and  leaf-storm. 

Jesus  ran  from  end  to  end  of  her  plastic  cage,  gibbering  with  fear. 

“Doctor  Gursky.”  Sol  did  not  think  he  had  seen  this  corporadisto  before, 
but  it  was  hard  to  be  certain;  Adam  Tesler  liked  his  personal  assistants  to 
look  as  if  he  had  nanofactured  them.  “I  can’t  begin  to  tell  you  how  excited  Mr. 
Tesler  is  about  this.” 

“You  should  be  there  with  me,”  Sol  said  to  Elena.  “It  was  your  idea.”  Then, 
to  the  suit,  “Dr.  Asado  should  be  with  me.” 

Elena  swiped  at  her  jet-blown  hair. 

“I  shouldn’t,  Sol.  It  was  your  baby.  Your  gestation,  your  birth.  Anyway,  you 
know  how  I hate  dealing  with  suits.”  This  for  the  smiling  PA,  but  he  was  al- 
ready guiding  Sol  to  the  open  hatch. 

Sol  strapped  in  and  the  ship  lurched  as  the  engines  screamed  up  into  lift. 
He  saw  Elena  wave  and  duck  back  toward  the  facility.  He  clutched  the  cat 
carrier  hard  as  his  gut  kicked  when  the  lifter  slid  into  horizontal  flight. 
Within,  the  dead  monkey  burbled  to  herself  in  exquisite  terror. 

“What  happened  to  your  thumb?”  the  corporadisto  asked. 

When  he’d  cracked  the  tank  and  lifted  Jesus  the  Rhesus  out  of  the  waters 
of  rebirth,  the  monkey  had  seemed  more  pissed  off  at  being  sopping  wet  than 
at  having  been  dead.  There  had  been  a pure,  perfect  moment  of  silence,  then 
the  simultaneous  oath  and  gout  of  blood,  and  the  Lazarus  team  had  exploded 
into  whooping  exultation.  The  monkey  had  skittered  across  the  floor, 
alarmed  by  the  hooting  and  cheering,  hunting  for  height  and  hiding.  Elena 
had  caught  it  spastically  trying — and  failing — to  hurl  itself  up  the  side  of  a 
desk.  She’d  swaddled  Jesus  up  in  thermal  sheeting  and  put  the  spasming 
thing  in  the  observation  incubator.  Within  the  hour,  Jesus  had  regained  full 
motor  control  and  was  chewing  at  the  corners  of  her  plastic  pen,  scratching 
imaginary  fleas  and  masturbating  ferociously.  While  delivery  companies 
dropped  off  pizza  stacks  and  cases  of  cheap  Mexican  champagne,  someone  re- 
membered to  call  Adam  Tesler. 

The  dead  monkey  was  not  a good  flier.  She  set  up  a wailing  keen  that  had 
even  the  pilot  complaining. 

“Stop  that,”  Sol  Gursky  snapped.  It  would  not  do  an5d;hing  for  him,  though, 
and  rocked  on  its  bare  ass  and  wailed  all  the  louder. 

“What  way  is  that  to  talk  to  a piece  of  history?”  the  PA  said.  He  grinned  in 

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through  the  grille,  waggled  fingers,  clicked  tongue.  “Hey  there,  little  fellow. 
Whatcha  call  him?” 

“Little  bitch,  actually.  We  call  her  Jesus;  also  known  as  Bride  of  Franken- 
stein.” 

Bite  him,  Solomon  Gursky  thought  as  ten  thousand  mirrored  swimming 
pools  shpped  beneath  the  belly  of  the  Tesler  Corporada  lifter. 

Frankenstein’s  creations  were  dead.  That  was  the  thing.  That  was  the  rev- 
elation. 

It  was  the  Age  of  Everything,  but  the  power  to  make  anything  into  any- 
thing else  was  not  enough,  because  there  was  one  thing  the  tectors  of 
Nanosis  and  Aristide-Tlaxcalpo  and  the  other  founders  of  the  nanotech  revo- 
lution could  not  manipulate  into  anything  else,  and  that  was  death.  A com- 
ment by  a pioneer  nanotechnologist  captured  the  optimism  and  frustration 
of  the  Age  of  Everything:  Watson’s  Postulate.  Never  mind  turning  trash  into 
oil  or  asteroids  into  heaps  of  Volkswagens,  or  hanging  exact  copies  of  Van 
Goghs  in  your  living  room;  the  first  thing  we  get  with  nanotechnology  is  im- 
mortality. 

Five  billion  Rim  dollars  in  research  disproved  it.  What  tectors  touched, 
they  transformed;  what  they  transformed,  they  killed.  The  Gursky-Asado 
team  had  beaten  its  rivals  to  the  viral  replicators,  that  infiltrated  living  cells 
and  converted  them  into  a different,  tector-based  matrix,  and  from  their 
DNA  spored  a million  copies.  It  had  shaped  an  algorithm  from  the  deadly  ac- 
curacy of  carcinomas.  It  had  run  tests  under  glass  and  in  tanks.  It  had  chris- 
tened that  other  nameless  Rhesus  Frankenstein  and  injected  the  tectors. 
And  Sol  and  Elena  had  watched  the  tiny  machines  slowly  transform  the 
monkey’s  body  into  something  not  even  gangrene  could  imagine. 

Elena  wanted  to  put  it  out  of  its  misery,  but  they  could  not  open  the  tank 
for  fear  of  contamination.  After  a week,  it  ended. 

The  monster  fell  apart.  That  was  the  thing.  And  then  Asado  and  Gursky 
remembered  a hot  afternoon  when  Sol  got  a set  of  diamond  gears  built  in  a 
place  called  Redencion. 

If  death  was  a complex  thing,  an  accumulation  of  micro-death  upon  mini- 
death upon  httle  death  upon  middling  death,  life  might  obey  the  same  power 
law.  Escalating  anti-entropy.  Pyramid-plan  life. 

Gursky’s  Corollary  to  Watson’s  Postulate:  The  first  thing  we  get  with  nan- 
otechnology is  the  resurrection  of  the  dead. 

The  Dark  Tower  rose  out  of  the  amber  haze.  Sol  and  Elena’s  private  joke 
had  escaped  and  replicated  itself;  everyone  in  R&D  now  called  the  thing 
Adam  Tesler  was  building  down  in  the  valley  Barad  Dur,  in  Mordor,  where 
the  smogs  lie.  And  Adam  Tesler,  its  unresting,  all-seeing  Eye. 

There  were  over  fifty  levels  of  it  now,  but  it  showed  no  signs  of  stopping. 
As  each  section  solidified  and  became  dormant,  another  division  of  Adam 
Tester’s  corporate  edifice  was  slotted  in.  The  architects  were  unable  to  say 
where  it  would  stop.  A kilometer,  a kilometer  and  a half;  maybe  then  the  ar- 
chitectors  would  stabilize  and  die.  Sol  loathed  its  glossy  black  excrescences 
and  crenellations,  a miscegeny  of  the  geological  and  the  cancerous.  Gaudi 
sculpting  in  shit. 

The  lifter  came  in  high  over  the  construction,  locked  into  the  navigation 
grid  and  banked.  Sol  looked  down  into  its  open  black  maw. 

AH  just  atoms,  the  g^iy  who  owned  the  factory  had  said.  Sol  could  not  re- 
member his  name  now.  The  living  and  the  dead  have  the  same  atoms. 

'They’d  started  small:  paramecia,  amoebae.  Things  hardly  alive.  Inverte- 


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brates.  Reanimated  cockroaches,  hurtling  on  their  thin  legs  around  the  ob- 
servation tank.  Biological  machine,  nanotech  machine,  still  a machine.  Sur- 
vival machine.  Except  now  you  couldn’t  stomp  the  bastards.  They  came  back. 

What  good  is  resurrection,  if  you  are  just  going  to  die  again? 

The  cockroaches  came  back,  and  they  kept  coming  back. 

He  had  been  the  cautious  one  this  time,  working  carefully  up  the  evolu- 
tionary chain.  Elena  was  the  one  who  wanted  to  go  right  for  it.  Do  the  mon- 
key. Do  the  monkey  and  you  do  the  man. 

He  had  watched  the  tectors  swarm  over  it,  strip  skin  fix)m  flesh,  flesh  from 
bone,  dissolve  bones.  He  had  watched  the  nanomachines  put  it  all  back  to- 
gether into  a monkey.  It  lay  in  the  liquid  intact,  but,  its  signs  said,  dead. 
Then  the  line  kicked,  and  kicked  again,  and  another  twitched  in  harmony, 
and  a third  came  in,  and  then  they  were  all  playing  together  on  the  vital 
signs  monitor,  and  that  which  was  dead  was  risen. 

The  lifter  was  into  descent,  lowering  itself  toward  the  exact  center  of  the 
white  cross  on  the  landing  grid  fastened  to  the  side  of  the  growing  tower. 
Touchdown.  The  craft  rocked  on  its  bug  legs.  Seat-belt  sign  off,  steps  down. 

“You  behave  yourself,”  Solomon  Gursky  told  Jesus. 

The  All-Seeing  Eye  was  waiting  for  him  by  the  upshaft.  His  Dark  Minions 
were  with  him. 

“Sol.” 

The  handshake  was  warm  and  strong,  but  Sol  Gursky  had  never  trusted 
Adam  Tesler  in  all  the  years  he  had  known  him;  as  nanoengineering  student 
or  as  head  of  the  most  dynamic  nanotech  corporada  in  the  Pacific  Rim  Co- 
Prosperity  Sphere. 

“So  this  is  it?”  Adam  Tesler  squatted  down  and  choo-choo-chooked  the 
monkey. 

“She  bites.” 

“I  see.”  Jesus  grabbed  his  thumb  in  her  tiny  pink  homunculus  hand.  “So, 
you  are  the  man  who  has  beaten  the  final  enemy.” 

“Not  beaten  it.  Found  something  on  the  far  side  of  it.  It’s  resurrection,  not 
immortahty.” 

Adam  Tesler  opened  the  cage.  Jesus  hopped  up  his  arm  to  perch  on  the 
shoulder  of  his  Scarpacchi  suit.  Tesler  tickled  the  fur  of  her  belly. 

“And  humans?” 

“Point  one  percent  divergence  between  her  DNA  and  yours.” 

“Ah.”  Adam  Tesler  closed  his  eyes.  “This  makes  it  all  the  harder.” 

Fear  pulsed  through  Solomon  Gursky  like  a sickness. 

“Leave  us,  please,”  Adam  Tesler  said  to  his  assistants.  “I’ll  join  you  in  a mo- 
ment.” 

Unspeaking,  they  filed  to  the  lifter. 

“Adam?” 

“Sol.  Why  did  you  do  it?” 

“What  are  you  talking  about,  Adam?” 

“You  know,  Sol.” 

For  an  instant,  Sol  Gursky  died  on  tbe  landing  grid  fused  to  the  fifty-third 
level  of  the  Tesler  corporada  tower.  Then  he  returned  to  life,  and  knew  with 
cool  and  beautiful  clarity  that  he  could  say  it  all,  that  he  must  say  it  all,  be- 
cause he  was  dead  now  and  nothing  could  touch  him. 

“It’s  too  much  for  one  person,  Adam.  This  isn’t  building  cars  or  growing 
houses  or  nanofacturing  custom  pharmaceuticals.  This  is  the  resurrection  of 
the  dead.  This  is  every  human  being  from  now  to  the  end  of  the  universe.  You 


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can’t  be  allowed  to  own  that.  Not  even  Gk)d  should  have  a monopoly  on  eter- 
nal life.” 

Adam  Tesler  sighed.  His  irises  were  photochromed  dark,  their  expression 
unreadable. 

“So.  How  long  is  it?” 

‘Thirteen  years.” 

“I  thought  I knew  you,  Sol.” 

‘1  thought  I knew  you.”  The  air  was  clear  and  hesh  and  pure,  here  on  this 
high  perch.  “How  did  you  find  out?” 

Adam  Tesler  stroked  the  monkey^ s head.  It  tried  to  push  his  fingers  away, 
baring  sharp  teeth. 

“You  can  come  here  now,  Marisa.” 

The  tail,  muscular  woman  who  walked  from  the  upshaft  across  the  land- 
ing grid  was  no  stranger  to  Sol.  He  knew  her  from  the  Yucatan  resort  masta- 
ba  and  the  Alaskan  ski-lodge  and  the  gambling  complex  grown  out  of  the  na- 
noengineered  reef  in  the  South  China  Sea.  From  clandestine  conversations 
through  secure  channels  and  discreet  meetings,  he  knew  that  her  voice 
would  be  soft  and  low  and  tinted  Australian. 

“You  dressed  better  when  you  worked  for  Aristide  Tlaxcalpo,”  Sol  said.  The 
woman  was  dressed  in  street  leathers.  She  smiled.  She  had  smiled  better 
tben  as  weU. 

“Why  them?”  Adam  Tesler  said.  “Of  all  the  ones  to  betray  me  to,  those 
clowns!” 

“That’s  why,”  said  Solomon  Gursky.  “Elena  had  nothing  to  do  with  this, 
you  know.” 

“I  know  that.  She’s  safe.  For  the  moment.” 

Sol  Gursky  knew  then  what  must  happen,  and  he  shivered  with  the  sud- 
den, urgent  need  to  destroy  before  he  was  destroyed.  He  pushed  down  the 
shake  of  rage  by  force  of  will  as  he  held  his  hand  out  and  chcked  his  fingers  to 
the  monkey.  Jesus  frowned  and  frisked  off  Tester’s  shoulder  to  Sol’s  hand.  In 
an  instant,  he  had  stretched,  twisted,  and  snapped  its  neck.  He  flung  the 
twitching  thing  away  from  him.  It  fell  to  the  red  mesh. 

“I  can  imderstand  that,”  Adam  Tesler  said.  “But  it  will  come  back  again, 
and  again,  and  again.”  He  turned  on  the  bottom  step  of  the  hfter.  “Have  you 
any  idea  how  disappointed  I am,  Sol?” 

“I  really  don’t  give  a shit!”  Solomon  Gursky  shouted  but  his  words  were 
swallowed  by  the  roar  of  engine  power-up.  The  lifter  hovered  and  swooped 
down  over  the  great  grid  of  the  city  toward  the  northern  hiUs. 

Sol  Gursky  and  Marisa  were  alone  on  the  platform. 

“Do  it!”  he  shouted. 

Those  muscles  he  had  so  admired,  he  realized,  were  augments;  her  fingers 
took  a fistful  of  his  neck  and  hfted  him  off  the  ground.  Stranghng,  he  kicked 
at  air,  snatched  at  breath.  One-armed,  she  carried  him  to  the  edge. 

“Do  it,”  he  tried  to  say,  but  her  fingers  choked  all  words  in  his  throat.  She 
held  him  out  over  the  drop,  smiling.  He  shat  himself,  and  realized  as  it 
poured  out  of  him  that  it  was  ecstasy,  that  it  always  had  been,  and  the  reason 
that  adults  forbade  it  was  precisely  because  it  was  such  a primal  joy. 

Through  blood  haze,  he  saw  the  tiny  knotted  body  of  Jesus  inching  toward 
him  on  pink  man-fingers,  its  neck  twisted  over  its  back,  eyes  staring  un- 
shielded into  the  sun.  Then  the  woman  fingers  at  last  released  their  grip,  and 
he  whispered  “thank  you”  as  he  dropped  toward  the  hard  white  death-light 
of  Hoover  Boulevard. 


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Wednesday 

The  seguridados  were  on  the  boulevards  tonight,  hunting  the  trespassing 
dead.  The  meat  were  monsters,  overmoneyed,  understimulated,  cerristo 
males  and  females  who  deeply  enjoyed  playing  angels  of  Big  Death  in  a world 
where  any  other  kind  of  death  was  temporary.  The  meat  were  horrors,  but 
their  machines  were  beautiful.  Mechadors:  robot  mantises  with  beaks  of 
vanadium  steel  and  two  rapid  fire  MIST  27s  throwing  fifty  self- targeting 
drones  per  second,  each  separating  into  a hail  of  sun-munitions  half  a second 
before  impact.  Fifteen  wide-spectrum  senses  analyzed  the  world;  the  ma- 
chines maneuvered  on  tightly  focused  impeller  fields.  And  absolutely  no 
thought  or  mercy.  Big  beautiful  death. 

The  window  in  the  house  in  the  hills  was  big  and  wide  and  the  man  stood 
in  the  middle  of  it.  He  was  watching  the  mechadors  hunt.  There  were  four  of 
them,  two  pairs  working  each  side  of  the  avenue.  He  saw  the  one  with 
Necroslayer  painted  on  its  tectoplastic  skin  boimd  over  the  shrubbery  from  the 
Sifuentes  place  in  a single  pulse  of  focused  electrogravitic  force.  It  moved  over 
the  lawn,  beaked  head  sensing.  It  paused,  scanned  the  window.  The  man  'met 
its  five  cluster  eyes  for  an  instant.  It  moved  on.  Its  impeller  drive  left  eddy 
patterns  on  the  shaved  turf.  The  man  watched  until  the  mechadors  passed  out 
of  sight,  and  the  seguridados  in  their  over-emphatic  battle-armor  came  up  the 
avenue,  covering  imagined  threats  with  their  hideously  powerful  weapons. 

“It’s  every  night  now,”  he  said.  “The)r’re  getting  scared.” 

In  an  instant,  the  woman  was  in  the  big,  wood-floored  room  where  the  man 
stood.  She  was  dressed  in  a virtuahty  bodyglove;  snapped  tendrils  retracting 
into  the  suit’s  node  points  indicated  the  abruptness  with  which  she  had 
pulled  out  of  the  web.  She  was  dark  and  very  angry.  Scared  angry. 

“Jesus  Joseph  Mary,  how  many  times  do  I have  to  tell  you?  Keep  away 
from  that  window!  They  catch  you,  you’re  dead.  Again.  Permanently” 

Solomon  Gursky  shrugged.  In  the  few  weeks  that  he  had  lived  in  her 
house,  the  woman  had  come  to  hate  that  shrug.  It  was  a shrug  that  only  the 
dead  can  make.  She  hated  it  because  it  brought  the  chUI  of  the  abyss  into  her 
big,  warm,  beautiful  house  in  the  hiUs. 

‘Tt  changes  things,”  the  dead  man  said. 

Elena  Asado  pulled  smart-leather  pants  and  a mesh  top  over  the  body- 
glove.  Since  turning  traitor,  she’d  lived  in  the  thing.  Twelve  hours  a day 
hooked  into  the  web  by  eye  and  ear  and  nose  and  soul,  fighting  the  man  who 
had  killed  her  lover.  As  well  fight  God,  Solomon  Gursky  thought  in  the  long, 
empty  hours  in  the  airy,  light-filled  rooms.  He  is  lord  of  life  and  death.  Elena 
only  removed  the  bodyglove  to  wash  and  excrete  and,  in  those  early,  blue-lit 
mornings  that  only  this  city  could  do,  when  she  made  chilly  love  on  the  big 
white  bed.  Time  and  anger  had  made  her  thin  and  tough.  She’d  cut  her  hair 
like  a boy’s.  Elena  Asado  was  a tight  wire  of  a woman,  femininity  jerked 
away  by  her  need  to  revenge  herself  on  Adam  Tesler  by  destroying  the  world 
order  his  gift  of  resurrection  had  created. 

Not  gift.  Never  gift.  He  was  not  Jesus,  who  offered  eternal  life  to  whoever 
believed.  No  profit  in  belief.  Adam  Tesler  took  everything  and  left  you  your 
soul.  If  you  could  sustain  the  heavy  inmortalidad  payments,  insurance  would 
take  you  into  post-life  debt-free.  'The  other  90  percent  of  Earth’s  dead  worked 
out  their  salvation  through  indenture  contracts  to  the  Death  House,  the 
Tesler  Thanos  corporada’s  agent  of  resurrection.  The  contratos  were  cen- 
turies long.  Time  was  the  province  of  the  dead.  They  were  cheap. 


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“The  Ewait/OzWest  affair  has  them  rattled,”  Elena  Asado  said. 

“A  handful  of  contradados  renege  on  their  contracts  out  on  some  asteroid, 
and  they’re  afraid  the  sky  is  going  to  fall  on  their  heads?” 

“They’re  calling  themselves  the  Freedead.  You  give  a thing  a name,  you 
give  it  power.  They  know  it’s  the  beginning.  Ewart/OzWest,  all  the  other  or- 
bital and  deep-space  manufacturing  corporadas;  they  always  knew  they 
could  never  enforce  their  contracts  off  Earth.  They’ve  lost  already.  Space  be- 
longs to  the  dead,”  the  meat  woman  said. 

Sol  crossed  the  big  room  to  the  other  window,  the  safe  window  that  looked 
down  from  the  high  hills  over  the  night  city.  His  palm  print  deconfigured  the 
glass.  Night,  city  night  perfumed  with  juniper  and  sex  and  smoke  and. the 
dusky  heat  of  the  heat  of  the  day,  curled  around  him.  He  went  to  the  balcony 
rail.  'The  boulevards  shimmered  like  a map  of  a mind,  but  there  was  a great 
dark  amnesia  at  its  heart,  an  amorphous  zone  where  lights  were  not,  where 
the  geometry  of  the  grid  was  abolished.  St.  John.  Necroville.  Dead  town.  The 
city  of  the  dead,  a city  within  a city,  walled  and  moated  and  guarded  with  the 
same  weapons  that  swept  the  boulevards.  City  of  curfew.  Each  dusk,  the  ar- 
tificial aurora  twenty  kilometers  above  the  Tres  Valles  Metropolitan  Area 
would  pulse  red;  the  skysign,  commanding  all  the  three  million  dead  to  re- 
turn from  the  streets  of  the  living  to  their  necrovilles.  They  passed  through 
five  gates,  each  in  the  shape  of  a massive  V bisected  by  a horizontal  line.  The 
entropic  flesh  hfe  descending,  the  eternal  resurrected  life  ascending,  through 
the  dividing  line  of  death.  That  was  the  law,  that  plane  of  separation.  Dead 
was  dead,  hving  was  hving.  As  incompatible  as  night  and  day. 

That  same  sign  was  fused  into  the  palm  of  every  resurrectee  that  stepped 
from  the  Death  House  Jesus  tanks. 

Not  true,  he  thought.  Not  all  are  reborn  with  stigmata.  Not  all  obey  curfew. 
He  held  his  hand  before  his  face,  studied  the  hnes  and  creases,  as  if  seeking  a 
destiny  written  there. 

He  had  seen  the  deathsign  in  the  palm  of  Elena’s  housegirl,  and  how  it 
flashed  in  time  to  the  aurora. 

“StUl  can’t  believe  it’s  real?” 

He  had  not  heard  Elena  come  onto  the  balcony  behind  him.  He  felt  the 
touch  of  her  hand  on  his  hair,  his  shoulder,  his  bare  arm.  Skin  on  skin. 

“The  Nez  Perce  tribe  believe  the  world  ended  on  the  third  day,  and  what 
we  are  living  in  are  the  dreams  of  the  last  night.  I fell.  I hit  that  white  light 
and  it  was  hard.  Hard  as  diamond.  Maybe  I dream  I hve,  and  my  dreams  are 
the  last  shattered  moments  of  my  life.” 

“Would  you  dream  it  hke  this?” 

“No,”  he  said  after  a time.  “I  can’t  recognize  anything  any  more.  I can’t  see 
how  it  connects  to  what  I last  remember.  So  much  is  missing.” 

“I  couldn’t  make  a move  until  I was  sure  he  didn’t  suspect.  He’d  done  a 
thorough  job.” 

“He  would.” 

“I  never  believed  that  story  about  the  lifter  crash.  The  universe  may  be 
ironic,  but  it’s  never  neat.” 

“I  think  a lot  about  the  poor  bastard  pilot  he  took  out  as  well,  just  to  make 
it  neat.”  The  air  carried  the  far  sound  of  drums  from  down  in  the  dead  town. 
Tomorrow  was  the  great  feast,  the  Night  of  All  the  Dead.  “Five  years,”  he 
said.  He  heard  the  catch  in  her  breathing  and  knew  what  she  would  say  next, 
and  what  would  follow. 

“What  is  it  like,  being  dead?”  Elena  Asado  asked. 


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In  his  weeks  imprisoned  in  the  hill  house,  an  unlawful  dead,  signless  and 
contractless,  he  had  learned  that  she  did  not  mean,  what  was  it  hke  to  be  res- 
urrected. She  wanted  to  know  about  the  darkness  before. 

“Nothing,”  he  answered,  as  he  always  did,  but  though  it  was  true,  it  was 
not  the  truth,  for  nothing  is  a product  of  human  consciousness  and  the  dark- 
ness beyond  the  shattering  hard  light  at  terminal  vee  on  Hoover  Boulevard 
was  the  end  of  all  consciousness.  No  dreams,  no  time,  no  loss,  no  light,  no 
dark.  No  thing. 

Now  her  fingers  were  stroking  his  skin,  feeling  for  some  of  the  chill  of  the 
no-thing.  He  turned  from  the  city  and  picked  her  up  and  carried  her  to  the 
big  empty  bed.  A month  of  new  life  was  enough  to  learn  the  rules  of  the  game. 
He  took  her  in  the  big,  wide  white  bed  by  the  glow  from  the  city  beneath,  and 
it  was  as  chill  and  formulaic  as  every  other  time.  He  knew  that  for  her  it  was 
more  than  sex  with  her  lover  come  back  from  a far  exile.  He  could  feel  in  the 
twitch  and  splay  of  her  muscles  that  what  made  it  special  for  her  was  that  he 
was  dead.  It  delighted  and  repelled  her.  He  suspected  that  she  was  incapable 
of  orgasm  with  fellow  meat.  It  did  not  trouble  him,  being  her  fetish.  The  body 
once  known  as  Solomon  Gursky  knew  another  thing,  that  only  the  dead  could 
know.  It  was  that  not  everything  that  died  was  resurrected.  The  shape,  the 
self,  the  sentience  came  back,  but  love  did  not  pass  through  death. 

Afterward,  she  liked  him  to  talk  about  his  resurrection,  when  no-thing  be- 
came thing  and  he  saw  her  face  looking  down  through  the  swirl  of  tectors. 
This  night  he  did  not  talk.  He  asked.  He  asked,  “What  was  I like?” 

“Your  body?”  she  said.  He  let  her  think  that.  “You  want  to  see  the  morgue 
photographs  again?” 

He  knew  the  charred  grin  of  a husk  well  enough.  Hands  flat  at  his  sides. 
That  was  how  she  had  known  right  away.  Burn  victims  died  with  their  fists 
up,  fighting  incineration. 

“Even  after  I’d  had  you  exhumed,  I couldn’t  bring  you  back.  I know  you 
told  me  that  he  said  I was  safe,  for  the  moment,  but  that  moment  was  too 
soon.  The  technology  wasn’t  sophisticated  enough,  and  he  would  have  known 
right  away.  I’m  sorry  I had  to  keep  you  on  ice.” 

“I  hardly  noticed,”  he  joked. 

“I  always  meant  to.  It  was  planned;  get  out  of  Tesler  Thanos,  then  contract 
an  illegal  Jesus  tank  down  in  St.  John.  The  Death  House  doesn’t  know  one 
tenth  of  what’s  going  on  in  there.” 

“Thank  you,”  Sol  Gursky  said,  and  then  he  felt  it.  He  felt  it  and  he  saw  it  as 
if  it  were  his  own  body.  She  felt  him  tighten. 

“Another  flashback?” 

“No,”  he  said.  “The  opposite.  Get  up.” 

“What?”  she  said.  He  was  already  pulling  on  leather  and  silk. 

‘That  moment  Adam  gave  you.” 

“Yes‘>” 

“It’s  over.” 

'The  car  was  morphed  into  low  and  fast  configuration.  At  the  bend  where 
the  avenue  slung  itself  down  the  hillside,  they  both  felt  the  pressure  wave  of 
something  large  and  flying  pass  over  them,  very  low,  utterly  silent. 

“Leave  the  car,”  he  ordered.  The  doors  were  already  gull-winged  open. 
Three  steps  and  the  house  went  up  behind  them  in  a rave  of  white  light.  It 
seemed  to  suck  at  them,  drawing  them  back  into  its  annihilating  gravity, 
then  the  shock  swept  them  and  the  car  and  every  homeless  thing  on  the  av- 
enue before  it.  Through  the  screaming  house  alarms  and  the  screaming 


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householders  and  the  rush  and  roar  of  the  conflagration,  Sol  heard  the  air- 
craft turn  above  the  vaporized  hacienda.  He  seized  Elena’s  hand  and  ran. 
The  lifter  passed  over  them  and  the  car  vanished  in  a burst  of  white  energy. 

“Jesus,  nanotok  warheads!” 

Elena  gasped  as  they  tumbled  down  through  tiered  and  terraced  gardens. 
The  lifter  turned  high  on  the  air,  echpsing  the  hazy  stars,  hunting  with  ex- 
tra-human senses.  Below,  formations  of  seguridados  were  spreading  out 
through  the  gardens. 

“How  did  you  know?”  Elena  gasped. 

‘T  saw  it,”  said  Solomon  Gursky  as  they  crashed  a pool  party  and  sent  bac- 
chanalian cerristos  scampering  for  cover.  Down,  down.  Augmented  cyber- 
hounds growled  and  quested  with  long-red  eyes;  domestic  defense  grids 
stirred,  captured  images,  alerted  the  pohce. 

“Saw?”  asked  Elena  Asado. 

APVs  and  city  pods  cut  smoking  hexagrams  in  the  highway  blacktop  as  Sol 
and  Elena  came  crashing  out  of  the  service  alley  onto  the  boulevard.  Horns. 
Lights.  Fervid  cvu'ses.  Grind  of  wheels.  Shriek  of  brakes.  Crack  of  smashing 
tectoplastic,  doubled,  redoubled.  Grid-pile  on  the  westway.  A mopedcab  was 
pulled  in  at  a tortilleria  on  the  right  shoulder.  The  cochero  was  happy  to  pass 
up  his  enchiladas  for  Elena’s  hard,  black  currency.  Folding,  cUnking  stuff. 

“Whereto?” 

The  destruction  his  passengers  had  wreaked  impressed  him.  Taxi  drivers 
universally  hate  cars. 

“Drive,”  Solomon  Gursky  said. 

'The  machine  kicked  out  onto  the  strip. 

‘It’s  stiU  up  there,”  Elena  said,  squinting  out  from  under  the  canopy  at  the 
night  sky. 

“They  won’t  do  anything  in  this  traffic.” 

“They  did  it  up  there  on  the  avenue.”  Then:  “You  said  you  saw.  What  do 
you  mean,  saw?" 

‘Tou  know  death,  when  you’re  dead,”  Solomon  Gursky  said.  “You  know  its 
face,  its  mask,  its  smell.  It  has  a perfume,  you  can  smell  it  from  a long  way 
off,  like  the  pheromones  of  moths.  It  blows  upwind  in  time.” 

“Hey,”  the  cochero  said,  who  was  poor,  but  live  meat.  “You  know  anything 
about  that  big  boom  up  on  the  hill?  What  was  that,  lifter  crash  or  some- 
thing?” 

“Or  something,”  Elena  said.  “Keep  driving.” 

“Need  to  know  where  to  keep  driving  to,  lady.” 

“Necroville,”  Solomon  Gursky  said.  St.  John.  City  of  the  Dead.  The  place 
beyond  law,  morahty,  fear,  love,  aU  the  things  that  so  tightly  bound  the  liv- 
ing. The  outlaw  city.  To  Elena  he  said,  ‘Tf  you’re  going  to  bring  down  Adam 
Tesler,  you  can  only  do  it  from  the  outside,  as  an  outsider.”  He  said  this  in 
English.  The  words  were  heavy  and  tasted  strange  on  his  bps.  ‘Tou  must  do 
it  as  one  of  the  dispossessed.  One  of  the  dead.” 

To  have  tried  to  run  the  fluorescent  vee-slash  of  the  Necroville  gate  would 
have  been  as  certain  a Big  Death  as  to  have  been  reduced  to  hot  ion  dust  in 
the  nanotok  flash.  The  mopedcab  prowled  past  the  samurai  silhouettes  of  the 
gate  seguridados.  Sol  had  the  driver  leave  them  beneath  the  dusty  palms  on 
a deserted  boulevard  pressed  up  hard  against  the  razor  wire  of  St.  John. 
Abandoned  by  the  living,  the  grass  verges  had  run  verdant,  scum  and  lilies 
scabbed  the  swimming  pools,  the  generous  Spanish-style  houses  softly  disin- 
tegrating, digested  by  their  own  gardens. 


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101 


June  1998 


It  gave  the  cochero  sp)Ooky  vibes,  but  Sol  liked  it.  He  knew  these  avenues. 
The  little  machine  putt-putted  off  for  the  lands  of  the  fuUy  living. 

“There  are  culverted  streams  all  round  here,”  Sol  said.  “Some  go  right  un- 
der the  defenses,  into  Necroville.” 

“Is  this  your  dead-sight  again?”  Elena  asked  as  he  started  down  an  over- 
hung service  alley. 

“In  a sense.  I grew  up  around  here.” 

“I  didn’t  know  that.” 

“Then  I can  trust  it.” 

She  hesitated  a step. 

“What  are  you  accusing  me  of?” 

“How  much  did  you  rebuild,  Elena?” 

“Your  memories  are  your  own,  Sol.  We  loved  each  other,  once.” 

“Once,”  he  said,  and  then  he  felt  it,  a static  purr  on  his  skin,  like  Elena’s 
fingers  over  his  whole  body  at  once.  'This  was  not  the  psychic  bloom  of  death 
foreseen.  This  was  physics,  the  caress  of  focused  gravity  fields. 

They  hit  the  turn  of  the  alley  as  the  mechadors  came  dropping  soft  and 
slow  over  the  roofs  of  the  old  moldering  residencias.  Across  a weed-infested 
tennis  court  was  a drainage  ditch  defended  by  a rusted  chicken-wire  fence. 
Sol  heaved  away  an  entire  section.  Adam  Tesler  had  built  his  dead  strong, 
and  fast.  The  refugees  followed  the  seeping,  rancid  water  down  to  a rusted 
grille  in  a culvert. 

“Now  we  see  if  the  Jesus  tank  grew  me  true,”  Sol  said  as  he  kicked  in  the 
grille.  ‘Tf  what  I remember  is  mine,  then  we  come  up  in  St.  John.  If  not,  we 
end  up  in  the  bay  three  days  from  now  with  our  eyes  eaten  out  by  chlorine.” 

They  ducked  into  the  culvert  as  a mechador  passed  over.  MIST  27s  sent 
the  mud  and  water  up  in  a blast  of  spray  and  battle  tectors.  The  dead  man 
and  the  living  woman  splashed  on  into  darkness. 

“He  loved  you,  you  know,”  Sol  said.  “That’s  why  he’s  doing  this.  He  is  a jeal- 
ous God.  I always  knew  he  wanted  you,  more  than  that  bitch  he  calls  a wife. 
While  I was  dead,  he  could  pretend  that  it  might  still  be.  He  could  overlook 
what  you  were  trying  to  do  to  him;  you  can’t  hurt  him,  Elena,  not  on  your 
own.  But  when  you  brought  me  back,  he  couldn’t  pretend  any  longer.  He 
couldn’t  turn  a bhnd  eye.  He  couldn’t  forgive  you.” 

“A  petty  God,”  Elena  said,  water  eddying  around  her  leather-clad  calves. 
Ahead,  a hght  from  a circle  in  the  roof  of  the  culvert  marked  a drain  from  the 
street.  They  stood  under  it  a moment,  feeling  the  touch  of  the  light  of 
Necroville  on  their  faces.  Elena  reached  up  to  push  open  the  grate.  Solomon 
Gursky  stayed  her,  turned  her  palm  upward  to  the  hght. 

“One  thing.”  he  said.  He  picked  a sharp  shard  of  concrete  from  the  tunnel 
wall.  With  three  strong  savage  strokes  he  cut  the  vee  and  slash  of  the  death 
sign  in  her  flesh. 


'Thursday 

He  was  three  kilometers  down  the  mass  driver  when  the  fleet  hit  Marlene 
Dietrich.  St.  Judy’s  Comet  was  five  AU  from  perihehon  and  out  of  ecliptic,  the 
Clade  thirty-sbc  degrees  out,  but  for  an  instant  two  suns  burned  in  the  sky. 

The  folds  of  transparent  tectoplastic  skin  over  Solomon  Gursky’s  face 
opaqued.  His  sur-arms  gripped  the  spiderwork  of  the  interstellar  engine, 
rocked  by  the  impact  on  his  electromagnetic  senses  of  fifty  minitok  warheads 


102 


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Asimov's 


converting  into  bevawatts  of  hard  energy.  The  death  scream  of  a nation. 
Three  hundred  Freedead  had  cluttered  the  freefall  warren  of  tunnels  that 
honeycombed  the  asteroid.  Marlene  Dietrich  had  been  the  seed  of  the  rebel- 
hon.  The  corporadas  cherished  their  grudges. 

Solomon  Gursky’s  face-shield  cleared.  The  light  of  Marlene  Dietrich’s  dy- 
ing was  short-lived  but  its  embers  faded  in  his  infravision  toward  the  stellar 
background. 

Elena  spoke  in  his  skull. 

You  know? 

Though  she  was  enfolded  in  the  command  womb  half  a kilometer  deep 
within  the  comet,  she  was  naked  to  the  universe  through  identity  hnks  to  the 
sensor  web  in  the  crust  and  a nimbus  of  bacterium-sized  spyships  weaving 
through  the  tenuous  gas  halo. 

I saw  it,  Solomon  Gursky  subvocalized. 

They’ll  come  for  us  now,  Elena  said. 

You  think.  Using  his  6as-arms  Sol  clambered  Edong  the  slender  spine  of  the 
mass  driver  toward  the  micro  meteorite  impact. 

I know.  When  long-range  cleared  after  the  blast,  we  caught  the  signatures 
of  blip-fusion  burns. 

Hand  over  hand  over  hand  over  hand.  One  of  the  first  things  you  learn, 
when  the  Freedead  change  you,  is  that  in  space  it  is  all  a question  of  attitude. 
A third  of  the  way  down  a nine-kilometer  mass  driver  with  several  billion 
tons  of  Oort  comet  spiked  on  it,  you  don’t  think  up,  you  don’t  think  down.  Up, 
and  it  is  vertigo.  Down,  and  a two  kilometer  sphere  of  grubby  ice  is  poised 
above  your  head  by  a thread  of  superconducting  tectoplastic.  Out,  that  was 
the  only  way  to  think  of  it  and  stay  sane.  Away,  and  back  again. 

How  many  drives?  Sol  asked.  'The  impact  pin-pointed  itself;  the  smart  plas- 
tic fluoresced  orange  when  wounded. 

Eight. 

A sub-voiced  blasphemy.  They  didn’t  even  make  them  break  sweat.  How 
long  have  we  got? 

Elena  flashed  the  projections  through  the  em-hnk  onto  his  visual  cortex. 
Curves  of  light  through  darkness  and  time,  warped  across  the  gravitation 
marches  of  Jupiter.  Under  current  acceleration,  the  Earth  fleet  would  be 
within  strike  in  eighty-two  hours. 

The  war  in  heaven  was  in  its  twelfth  year.  Both  sides  had  determined  that 
this  was  to  be  the  last.  The  NightFreight  War  would  be  fought  to  an  outcome. 
They  called  themselves  the  Clades,  the  outlaw  descendants  of  the  original 
Ewart/OzWest  asteroid  rebellion;  a handful  of  redoubts  scattered  across  the 
appalling  distances  of  the  solar  system.  Marlene  Dietrich,  the  first  to  declare 
freedom;  Neruro,  a half-completed  twenty  kilometer  wheel  of  tectoplastic  at- 
tended by  O’Neill  can  utihties,  agriculture  tanks,  and  habitation  bubbles,  the 
aspirant  capital  of  the  space  Dead.  Ares  Orbital,  dreaming  of  tectoformed 
Mars  in  the  pumice  pore  spaces  of  Phobos  and  Deimos;  the  Pale  Gallileans, 
surfing  over  the  icescapes  of  Europa  on  an  improbable  raft  of  cables  and 
spars;  the  Shepherd  Moons,  dwellers  on  the  edge  of  the  abyss,  sailing  the  so- 
lar wind  through  Saturn’s  rings.  Toe-holds,  shallow  scratchings,  space-hov- 
els; but  the  stolen  nanotechnology  burgeoned  in  the  energy-rich  environment 
of  space.  An  infinite  ecological  niche.  The  Freedead  knew  they  were  the  in- 
heritors of  the  universe.  The  meat  corporadas  had  withdrawn  to  the  orbit  of 
their  planet.  For  a time.  When  they  struck,  they  struck  decisively.  The  Tsi- 
olkovski  Glade  on  the  dark  side  of  the  moon  was  the  first  to  fall  as  the  battle 


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103 


June  1998 


groups  of  the  corporadas  thrust  outward.  The  delicate  film  of  vacuum-com- 
patihle  tectoformed  forest  that  carpeted  the  crater  was  seared  away  in  the  al- 
pha strike.  By  the  time  the  last  strike  went  in,  a new  five-kilometer  deep 
crater  of  glowing  tufa  replaced  the  tunnels  and  excavations  of  the  old  lunar 
mining  base.  Earth’s  tides  had  trembled  as  the  moon  staggered  in  its  orbit. 

Big  Big  Death. 

The  battle  groups  moved  toward  their  primary  targets.  The  corporadas 
had  learned  much  embargoed  under  their  atmosphere.  The  new  ships  were 
lean,  mean,  fast:  multiple  missile  racks  clipped  to  high-gee  blip-fusion  mo- 
tors, pilots  suspended  in  acceleration  gel  like  flies  in  amber,  hooked  by  every 
orifice  into  the  big  battle  virtualizers. 

Thirteen-year-old  boys  had  the  best  combination  of  reaction  time  and  vi- 
ciousness. 

Now  the  blazing  teenagers  had  wantonly  destroyed  the  Marlene  Dietrich 
Clade.  Ares  Orbital  was  wide  open;  Neruro,  where  most  of  the  Freedead 
slamship  fleet  was  based,  would  fight  hard.  Two  corporada  ships  had  been 
dispatched  Jupiterward.  Orbital  mechanics  gave  the  defenseless  Pale 
GaUileans  fifteen  months  to  contemplate  their  own  annihilation. 

But  the  seed  has  flown,  Solomon  Gursky  thought  silently,  out  on  the  mass 
driver  of  St.  Judy’s  Comet.  Where  we  are  going,  neither  your  most  powerful 
ships  nor  your  most  vicious  boys  can  reach  us. 

'ITie  micrometeorite  impact  had  scrambled  the  tectoplastic’s  hmited  intelM- 
gence:  fibers  and  filaments  of  smart  polymer  twined  and  coiled,  seeking  com- 
pletion and  purpose.  Sol  touched  his  sur-hands  to  the  surfaces.  He  imagined 
he  could  feel  the  order  pass  out  of  him,  like  a prickle  of  tectors  osmosing 
through  vacuum-tight  skin. 

Days  of  miracles  and  wonder,  Adam,  he  thought.  And  because  you  are  jeal- 
ous that  we  are  doing  things  with  your  magic  you  never  dreamed,  you  would 
blast  us  all  to  photons. 

The  breach  was  repaired.  The  mass  driver  trembled  and  kicked  a pellet 
into  space,  and  another,  and  another.  And  Sol  Gursky,  working  his  way  hand 
over  hand  over  hand  over  hand  down  the  device  that  was  taking  him  to  the 
stars,  saw  the  trick  of  St.  Judy’s  Comet.  A ball  of  fuzzy  ice  drawing  a long  tail 
behind  it.  Not  a seed,  but  a sperm,  swimming  through  the  big  dark.  Thus  we 
impregnate  the  universe. 

St.  Judy’s  Comet.  Petite  as  Oort  cloud  family  members  go:  two  point  eight 
by  one  point  seven  by  two  point  two  kilometers.  (Think  of  the  misshaped 
potato  you  push  to  the  side  of  your  plate  because  anything  that  looks  that 
weird  is  sure  to  give  you  cramps.)  Undernourished,  at  sixty-two  billion  tons. 
Waif  and  stray  of  the  solar  system,  wandering  slow  and  lonely  back  out  into 
the  dark  after  her  hour  in  the  sun  (but  not  too  close,  burn  you  real  bad,  too 
much  sun)  when  these  dead  people  snatch  her,  grope  her  all  over,  shove 
things  up  her  ass,  mess  with  her  insides,  make  her  do  strange  and  unnatur- 
al acts,  like  shitting  tons  of  herself  away  every  second  at  a good  percentage 
of  the  speed  of  light.  Don’t  you  know  you  ain’t  no  comet  no  more?  You’re  a 
starship.  See  up  there,  in  the  Swan,  just  to  the  left  of  that  big  bright  star? 
There’s  a little  dim  star  you  can’t  see.  That’s  where  you’re  going,  little  St. 
Judy.  Take  some  company.  Going  to  be  a long  trip.  And  what  will  I find  when 
I get  there?  A big  bastard  MACHO  of  gas  supergiant  orbiting  61  Cygni  at  the 
distance  of  Saturn  from  the  sun,  that’s  what  you’ll  find.  Just  swarming  with 
moons;  one  of  them  should  be  right  for  terrestrial  life.  And  if  not,  no  matter; 
sure,  what’s  the  difference  between  tectoforming  an  asteroid,  or  a comet,  or 


104 


Ion  McDonald 


Asimov's 


the  moon  of  an  extra-solar  gas  super-giant?  Just  scale.  You  see,  we’ve  got 
everything  we  need  to  tame  a new  solar  system  right  here  with  us.  It’s  all 
just  carbon,  hydrogen,  nitrogen,  and  oxygen,  and  you  have  that  in  abun- 
dance. And  maybe  we  like  you  so  much  that  we  find  we  don’t  even  need  a 
world  at  all.  Balls  of  muck  and  gravity,  hell;  we’re  the  Freedead.  Space  and 
time  belong  to  us. 

It  was  Solomon  Gursky,  born  in  another  century,  who  gave  the  ship  its 
name.  In  that  other  century,  he  had  owned  a large  and  eclectic  record  collec- 
tion. On  vinyl. 

The  twenty  living  dead  crew  of  St.  Judy’s  Comet  gathered  in  the  command 
womb  embedded  in  sixty-two  billion  tons  of  ice  to  plan  battle.  The  other  five 
hundred  and  forty  were  stored  as  superconducting  tector  matrices  in  a heli- 
um ice  core;  the  dead  dead,  to  be  resurrected  out  of  comet  stuff  at  their  new 
home.  The  crew  hovered  in  nanogee  in  a score  of  different  orientations 
around  the  free-floating  instrument  clusters.  They  were  strange  and  beauti- 
ful, as  gods  and  angels  are.  Like  angels,  they  flew.  Like  gods  in  some  pan- 
theons, they  were  four-armed.  Fine,  manipulating  s«r-arms;  strong  grasping 
6as-arms  growing  from  a lower  spine  reconfigured  by  Jesus  tanks  into  pow- 
erful anterior  shoulder-blades.  Their  vacuum-and-radiation-tight  skins  were 
photosynthetic,  and  as  beautifully  marked  and  colored  as  a hunting  animal’s. 
Stripes,  swirls  of  green  on  orange,  blue  on  black,  fractal  patterns,  flags  of  leg- 
endary nations,  tattoos.  Illustrated  humans. 

Elena  Asado,  caressed  by  tendrils  from  the  sensor  web,  gave  them  the 
stark  news.  Fluorescent  patches  on  shoulders,  hips,  and  groin  glowed  when 
she  spoke. 

‘The  bastards  have  jumped  vee.  They  must  have  burned  every  last  mole- 
cule of  hydrogen  in  their  thruster  tanks  to  do  it.  Estimated  to  strike  range  is 
now  sixty-four  hours.” 

The  capitan  of  St.  Judy’s  Comet,  a veteran  of  the  Marlene  Dietrich  rebel- 
lion, shifted  orientation  to  face  Jorge,  the  ship’s  reconfiguration  engineer. 

“Long  range  defenses?”  Capitan  Savita’s  skin  was  an  exquisite  mottle  of 
pale  green  bamboo  leaves  in  sun  yellow,  an  incongruous  contrast  to  the  tan- 
gible anxiety  in  the  command  womb. 

“First  wave  missiles  will  be  fully  grown  and  launch-ready  in  twenty-six 
hours.  The  fighters,  no.  The  best  I can  push  the  assemblers  up  to  is  sixty-six 
hours.” 

“What  can  you  do  in  time?”  Sol  Gursky  asked. 

“With  your  help,  I could  simplify  the  fighter  design  for  close  combat.” 

“How  close?”  Capitan  Savita  asked. 

“Under  a hundred  kays.” 

“How  simplified?”  Elena  asked. 

“Little  more  than  an  armed  exo-skeleton  with  maneuvering  pods.” 

And  they  need  to  be  clever  every  time,  Sol  thought.  The  meat  need  to  be 
clever  only  once. 

Space  war  was  as  profligate  with  time  as  it  was  with  energy  and  distance. 
With  the  redesigns  growing,  Sol  Gursky  spent  most  of  the  twenty-six  hours 
to  missile  launch  on  the  ice,  naked  to  the  stars,  imagining  their  warmth  on 
his  face-shield.  Five  years  since  he  had  woken  from  his  second  death  in  a 
habitat  bubble  out  at  Marlene  Dietrich,  and  stars  had  never  ceased  to  amaze 
him.  When  you  come  back,  you  are  tied  to  the  first  thing  you  see.  Beyond  the 
transparent  tectoplastic  bubble,  it  had  been  stars. 


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June  1998 


The  first  time,  it  had  been  Elena.  Tied  together  in  life,  now  in  death. 
Necroville  had  not  been  sanctuary.  The  place  beyond  the  law  only  gave  Adam 
Tesler  new  and  more  colorful  opportunities  to  incarnate  his  jealousy.  The 
Benthic  Lords,  they  had  called  themselves.  Wild,  free,  dead.  T^ey  probably 
had  not  known  they  were  working  for  Tesler-Thanos,  but  they  took  her  out 
in  a dead  bar  on  Terminal  Boulevard.  With  a game-fishing  harpoon.  They 
carved  their  skull  symbol  on  her  forehead,  a rebuttal  of  the  deathsign  Sol  had 
cut  in  her  palm.  Now  you  are  really  dead,  meat.  He  had  known  they  would 
never  be  safe  on  Earth.  The  companeros  in  the  Death  House  had  faked  the 
off-world  NightFreight  contracts.  The  pill  Sol  took  had  been  surprisingly  bit- 
ter, the  dive  into  the  white  light  as  hard  as  he  remembered. 

Stars.  You  could  lose  yourself  in  them;  spirit  strung  out,  orb  gazing.  Some- 
where out  there  was  a still-invisible  constellation  of  eight,  tight  formation, 
silent  running.  Kilhng  stars.  Death  stars. 

Everyone  came  up  to  watch  the  missiles  launch  from  the  black  foramens 
grown  out  of  the  misty  ice.  The  chemical  motors  burned  at  twenty  kays:  a 
sudden  galaxy  of  white  stars.  They  watched  them  fade  from  sight.  Twelve 
hours  to  contact.  No  one  expected  them  to  do  any  more  than  waste  a few 
thousand  rounds  of  the  meat’s  point  defenses. 

In  a dozen  manufacturing  pods  studded  around  St.  Judy’s  dumpy  waist, 
Jorge  and  Sol’s  fighters  gestated.  Their  slow  accretion,  molecule  by  molecule, 
fascinated  Sol.  Evil  dark  things,  St.  Andrew’s  crosses  cast  in  melted  bone.  At 
the  center  a human-shaped  cavity.  You  flew  spread-eagled.  Bas-hands 
gripped  thruster  controls;  sur-hands  armed  and  aimed  the  squirt  lasers. 
Dark  flapping  things  Sol  had  glimpsed  once  before  flocked  again  at  the  edges 
of  his  consciousness.  He  had  cheated  the  dark  premonitory  angels  that  other 
time.  He  would  sleight  them  again. 

The  first  engagement  of  the  battle  of  St.  Judy’s  Comet  was  at  01:45  GMT. 
Solomon  Gursky  watched  it  with  his  crewbrethren  in  the  ice-wrapped 
warmth  of  the  command  womb.  His  virtualized  sight  perceived  space  in  three 
dimensions.  Those  blue  cylinders  were  the  corporada  ships.  That  white 
swarm  closing  from  a hundred  different  directions,  the  missiles.  One  ap- 
proached a blue  cylinder  and  burst.  Another,  and  another;  then  the  inner  dis- 
play was  a glare  of  novas  as  the  first  wave  was  annihilated.  The  back-up 
went  in.  The  vanguard  exploded  in  beautiful  futile  blossoms  of  light.  Closer. 
They  were  getting  closer  before  the  meat  shredded  them.  Sol  watched  a war- 
head loop  up  from  due  south,  streak  toward  the  point  ship,  and  annihilate  it 
in  a red  flash. 

The  St.  Judy’s  Cometeers  cheered.  One  gone,  reduced  to  bubbling  slag  by 
tectors  sprayed  from  the  warhead. 

One  was  all  they  got.  It  was  down  to  the  fighter  pilots  now. 

Sol  and  Elena  made  love  in  the  count-up  to  launch.  Bos-arms  and  sur-arms 
locked  in  the  freegee  of  the  forward  observation  bhster.  Stars  described  slow 
arcs  across  the  transparent  dome,  like  a sky.  Love  did  not  pass  through 
death;  Elena  had  realized  this  bitter  truth  about  what  she  had  imagined  she 
had  shared  with  Solomon  Gursky  in  her  house  on  the  hillside.  But  love  could 
grow,  and  become  a thing  shaped  for  eternity.  When  the  fluids  had  dried  on 
their  skins,  they  sealed  their  soft,  intimate  places  with  vacuum-tight  skin 
and  went  up  to  the  launch  bays. 

Sol  fitted  her  into  the  scooped-out  shell.  Tectoplastic  fingers  gripped  Ele- 
na’s body  and  meshed  with  her  skin  circuitry.  The  angel-suit  came  alive. 
'There  was  a trick  they  had  learned  in  their  em-telepathy;  a massaging  of  the 


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limbic  system  like  an  inner  kiss.  One  mutual  purr  of  pleasiure,  then  she  cast 
off,  suit  still  dripping  gobs  of  frozen  tectopolymer.  St.  Judy’s  defenders  would 
fight  dark  and  silent;  that  mental  kiss  would  be  the  last  radio  contact  until  it 
was  decided.  Solomon  Gursky  watched  the  blue  stutter  of  the  thrusters 
merge  with  the  stars.  Reaction  mass  was  limited;  those  who  returned  from 
the  fight  would  jettison  their  angel-svuts  and  ghde  home  by  solar  sail.  Then 
he  went  below  to  monitor  the  battle  through  the  tickle  of  molecules  in  his 
frontal  lobes. 

St.  Judy’s  Angels  formed  two  squadrons:  one  flying  anti-missile  defense, 
the  other  climbing  high  out  of  the  ecliptic  to  swoop  down  on  the  corporada 
ships  and  destroy  them  before  they  could  empty  their  weapon  racks.  Elena 
was  in  the  close  defense  group.  Her  angelship  icon  was  identified  in  Sol’s  in- 
ner vision  in  red  on  gold  tiger  stripes  of  her  skin.  He  watched  her  weave  in- 
tricate orbits  around  St.  Judy’s  Comet  as  the  blue  cyhnders  of  the  meat  ap- 
proached the  plane  labeled  “strike  range.” 

Suddenly,  seven  blue  icons  spawned  a cloud  of  actinic  sparks,  raining  down 
on  St.  Judj^s  Comet  like  fireworks. 

“Jesus  Joseph  Mary!”  someone  swore  quietly. 

“Fifty-five  gees,”  Capitan  Savita  said  calmly.  “Time  to  contact,  one  thou- 
sand and  eighteen  seconds.” 

“They’ll  never  get  them  all,”  said  Kobe  with  the  Mondrian  skin  pattern, 
who  had  taken  Elena’s  place  in  remote  sensing. 

“We  have  one  hundred  and  fifteen  contacts  in  the  first  wave,”  Jorge  an- 
nounced. 

“Sol,  I need  delta  vee,”  Savita  said. 

“More  than  a thousandth  of  a gravity  and  the  mass  driver  coils  will  warp,” 
Sol  said,  caUing  overlays  onto  his  visual  cortex. 

“Anything  that  throws  a curve  into  their  computations,”  Savita  said. 

“I’ll  see  how  close  I can  push  it.” 

He  was  glad  to  have  to  lose  himself  in  the  problems  of  squeezing  a few  mil- 
limeters per  second  squared  out  of  the  big  electromagnetic  gun,  because  then 
he  would  not  be  able  to  see  the  curve  and  swoop  of  attack  vectors  and  inter- 
cept planes  as  the  point  defense  group  closed  with  the  missiles.  Especially  he 
would  not  have  to  watch  the  twine  and  loop  of  the  tiger- striped  cross  and  fear 
that  at  any  instant  it  would  intersect  with  a sharp  blue  cvuve  in  a flash  of  an- 
nihilation. One  by  one,  those  blue  stars  were  going  out,  he  noticed,  but  slow- 
ly. Too  slowly.  Too  few. 

'The  computer  gave  him  a solution.  He  fed  it  to  the  mass  driver.  The  shift  of 
acceleration  was  as  gentle  as  a catch  of  breath. 

Thirty  years  since  he  had  covered  his  head  in  a S5Tiagogue,  but  Sol  Giu-sky 
prayed  to  Yahweh  that  it  would  be  enough. 

One  down  already;  Emilio’s  spotted  indigo  gone,  and  half  the  missiles  were 
still  on  trajectory.  'Time  to  impact  ticked  down  impassively  in  the  upper  right 
corner  of  his  virtual  vision.  Six  hundred  and  fifteen  seconds.  Ten  minutes  to 
live. 

But  the  attack  angels  were  among  the  corporadas,  dodging  the  brilliant 
flares  of  short  range  interceptor  drones.  'The  meat  fleet  tried  to  scatter,  but 
the  ships  were  low  on  reaction  mass,  ungainly,  unmaneuverable.  St.  Judy’s 
Angels  dived  and  sniped  among  them,  clipping  a missile  rack  here,  a solar 
panel  there,  ripping  open  life  support  bubbles  and  fuel  tanks  in  slow  explo- 
sions of  outgassing  hydrogen.  'The  thirteen-year-old  pilots  died,  raging  with 
chemical-induced  fury,  spilled  out  into  vacuum  in  tears  of  flash-frozen  accel- 


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eration  gel.  The  attacking  fleet  dwindled  from  seven  to  five  to  three  ships. 
But  it  was  no  abattoir  of  the  meat;  of  the  six  dead  angels  that  went  in,  only 
two  pulled  away  into  rendezvous  orbit,  laser  capacitors  dead,  reaction  mass 
spent.  The  crews  ejected,  unfurled  their  solar  sails,  shields  of  light. 

Two  meat  ships  survived.  One  used  the  last  grams  of  his  maneuvering 
mass  to  w^lrp  into  a return  orbit;  the  other  routed  his  thruster  fuel  through 
his  blip  drive;  headlong  for  St.  Judy. 

“He’s  going  for  a ram,”  Kobe  said. 

“Sol,  get  us  away  from  him,”  Capitan  Savita  ordered. 

“He’s  too  close.”  The  numbers  in  Sol’s  skull  were  remorseless.  “Even  if  I cut 
the  mass  driver,  he  can  still  run  life  support  gas  through  the  STUs  to  com- 
pensate.” 

The  command  womb  quivered. 

“Fuck,”  someone  swore  reverently. 

“Near  miss,”  Kobe  reported.  “Direct  hit  if  Sol  hadn’t  given  us  gees.” 

“Mass  driver  is  still  with  us,”  Sol  said. 

“Eiley’s  gone,”  Capitan  Savita  said. 

Fifty  missiles  were  now  twenty  missiles  but  Emilio  and  Riley  were  dead, 
and  the  range  was  closing.  Little  room  for  maneuver;  none  for  mistakes. 

‘Two  hundred  and  fifteen  seconds  to  ship  impact,”  Kobe  announced.  The 
main  body  of  missiles  was  dropping  behind  St.  Judy’s  Comet.  Ogawa  and 
Skin,  Mandelbrot  set  and  Dalmatian  spots,  were  fighting  a rearguard  as  the 
missiles  tried  to  reacquire  their  target.  Olive  green  ripples  and  red  tiger 
stripes  swung  roimd  to  face  the  meat  ship.  Quinsana  and  Elena. 

Jesus  Joseph  Mary,  but  it  was  going  to  be  close! 

Sol  wished  he  did  not  have  the  graphics  in  his  head.  He  wished  not  to  have 
to  see.  Better  sudden  annihilation,  blindness  and  ignorance  shattered  by  de- 
stro3dng  light.  To  see,  to  know,  to  count  the  digits  on  the  timer,  was  as  cruel 
as  execution.  But  the  inner  vision  has  no  eyelids.  So  he  watched,  impotent, 
as  Quinsana’s  olive  green  cross  was  pierced  and  shattered  by  a white  flare 
from  the  meat  ship.  And  he  watched  as  Elena  raked  the  meat  with  her  lasers 
and  cut  it  into  quivering  chunks,  and  the  blast  of  engines  destro3dng  them- 
selves sent  the  shards  of  ship  arcing  away  from  St.  Judy’s  Comet.  And  he 
could  only  watch,  and  not  look  away,  as  Elena  turned  too  slow,  too  little,  too 
late,  as  the  burst  seed-pod  of  the  environment  unit  tore  off  her  thruster  legs 
and  light  sail  and  sent  her  spinning  end  over  end,  crippled,  destroyed. 

“Elena!”  he  screamed  in  both  his  voices.  “Elena!  Oh  Jesus  oh  God!”  But  he 
had  never  believed  in  either  of  them,  and  so  they  let  Elena  Asado  go  tum- 
bhng  endlessly  toward  the  beautiful  galaxy  clusters  of  Virgo. 

Earth’s  last  rage  against  her  children  expired:  twenty  missiles  dwindled  to 
ten,  to  five,  to  one.  To  none.  St.  Judy’s  Comet  continued  her  slow  climb  out  of 
the  sun’s  gravity  well,  into  the  deep  dark  and  the  deeper  cold.  Its  five  hun- 
dred and  twenty  souls  slept  sound  and  ignorant  as  only  the  dead  can  in 
tombs  of  ice.  Soon  Solomon  Gtrrsky  and  the  others  would  join  them,  and  be 
dissolved  into  the  receiving  ice,  and  die  for  five  hundred  years  while  St. 
Judy’s  Comet  made  the  crossing  to  another  star. 

If  it  were  sleep,  then  I might  forget,  Solomon  Gursky  thought.  In  sleep, 
things  changed,  memories  became  dreams,  dreams  memories.  In  sleep,  there 
was  time,  and  time  was  change,  and  perhaps  a chance  of  forgetting  the  vision 
of  her,  spinning  outward  forever,  rebuilt  by  the  same  forces  that  had  already 
resurrected  her  once,  living  on  sunlight,  unable  to  die.  But  it  was  not  sleep  to 
which  he  was  going.  It  was  death,  and  that  was  nothing  any  more. 


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Friday 

Together  they  watched  the  city  bum.  It  was  one  of  the  ornamental  cities  of 
the  plain  that  the  Long  Scanning  folk  built  and  maintained  for  the  quadren- 
nial eisteddfods.  There  was  something  of  the  flower  in  the  small,  jewel-like 
city,  and  something  of  the  spiral,  and  something  of  the  sea-wave.  It  would 
have  as  been  as  accurate  to  call  it  a vast  building  as  a miniature  city.  It 
burned  most  elegantly. 

The  fault  hne  ran  right  through  the  middle  of  it.  The  fissure  was  clean  and 
precise — no  less  to  be  expected  of  the  Long  Scanning  folk — and  bisected  the 
curvilinear  architecture  from  top  to  bottom.  The  land  stiU  quivered  to  after- 
shocks. 

It  could  have  repaired  itself.  It  could  have  doused  the  flames — a short  in 
the  magma  tap,  the  man  reckoned — reshaped  the  melted  ridges  and  roofs, 
erased  the  scorch  marks,  bridged  the  cracks  and  chasms.  But  its  tector  sys- 
tems were  directionless,  its  soul  withdrawn  to  the  Heaven  Tree,  to  join  the 
rest  of  the  Long  Scanning  people  on  their  exodus. 

The  woman  watched  the  smoke  rise  into  the  darkening  sky,  obscuring  the 
great  opal  of  Urizen. 

“It  doesn’t  have  to  do  this,”  she  said.  Her  skin  spoke  of  sorrow  mingled  with 
puzzlement. 

“They’ve  no  use  for  it  any  more,”  the  man  said.  “And  there’s  a certain  beau- 
ty in  destruction.” 

“It  scares  me,”  the  woman  said,  and  her  skin  pattern  agreed.  “I’ve  never 
seen  an5d;hing  end  before.” 

Lucky,  the  man  thought,  in  a language  that  had  come  from  another  world. 

An  eddy  in  his  weathersight:  big  one  coming.  But  they  were  all  big  ones 
since  the  orbital  perturbations  began.  Big,  getting  bigger.  At  the  end,  the 
storms  would  tear  the  forests  from  their  roots  as  the  atmosphere  shrieked 
into  space. 

That  afternoon,  on  their  journey  to  the  man’s  memories,  they  had  come 
across  an  empty  marina;  drained,  sand  clogged,  jwntoons  tom  and  tossed  by 
tsunamis.  Its  crew  of  boats  they  found  scattered  the  length  of  a half-hour’s 
walk.  Empty  shells  stogged  to  the  waist  in  dune  faces,  masts  and  sails  hung 
from  trees. 

The  weather  had  been  the  first  thing  to  tear  free  from  control.  The  man  felt 
a sudden  tautness  in  the  woman’s  body.  She  was  seeing  it  to,  the  mid-game  of 
the  end  of  the  world. 

By  the  time  they  reached  the  sheltered  valley  that  the  man’s  aura  had 
picked  as  the  safest  location  to  spend  the  night,  the  wind  had  risen  to  draw 
soft  moans  and  chords  from  the  curves  and  crevasses  of  the  dead  city.  As 
their  cloaks  of  elementals  joined  and  sank  the  roots  of  the  night  shell  into 
rock,  a flock  of  bubbles  bowled  past,  trembling  and  iridescent  in  the  gusts. 
The  woman  caught  one  on  her  hand;  the  tiny  creature-machine  clung  for  a 
moment,  feeding  from  her  biofield.  Its  transparent  skin  raced  with  oil-film 
colors,  it  quaked  and  burst,  a melting  bubble  of  tectoplasm.  The  woman 
watched  it  until  the  elementals  had  completed  the  shelter,  but  the  thing 
stayed  dead. 

Their  love-making  was  both  urgent  and  chilled  under  the  scalloped  cara- 
pace the  elementals  had  sculpted  from  rock  silica.  Sex  and  death,  the  man 
said  in  the  part  of  his  head  where  not  even  his  sub-vocal  withspeech  could 
overhear  and  transmit.  An  ahen  thought. 


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June  1998 


She  wanted  to  talk  afterward.  She  Uked  talk  after  sex.  Unusually,  she  did 
not  ask  him  to  tell  her  about  how  he  and  the  other  Five  Hundred  Fathers  had 
built  the  world.  Her  idea  of  talking  was  him  talking.  Tonight  she  did  not 
want  to  talk  about  the  world’s  beginning.  She  wanted  him  to  talk  about  its 
ending. 

“Do  you  know  what  I hate  about  it?  It’s  not  that  it’s  all  going  to  end,  all 
this.  It’s  that  a bubble  burst  in  my  hand,  and  I can’t  comprehend  what  hap- 
pened to  it.  How  much  more  our  whole  world?” 

“There  is  a word  for  what  you  felt,”  the  man  interjected  gently.  The 
g3rrestorm  was  at  its  height,  raging  over  the  dome  of  their  shell.  'The  thick- 
ness of  a skin  is  all  that  is  keeping  the  wind  from  stripping  the  flesh  from  my 
bones,  he  thought.  But  the  tectors’  grip  on  the  bedrock  was  firm  and  sure. 
“The  word  is  die." 

The  woman  sat  with  her  knees  pulled  up,  arms  folded  around  them. 
Naked:  the  gyrestorm  was  blowing  through  her  soul. 

“What  I hate,”  she  said  after  silence,  “is  that  I have  so  httle  time  to  see  and 
feel  it  all  before  it’s  taken  away  into  the  cold  and  the  dark.” 

She  was  a Green,  born  in  the  second  of  the  short  year’s  fast  seasons:  a 
Green  of  the  Hidden  Design  people;  first  of  the  Old  Red  Ridge  pueblo  people 
to  come  into  the  world  in  eighty  years.  And  the  last. 

Eight  years  old. 

“You  won’t  die,”  the  man  said,  skin  patterning  in  whorls  of  reassurance 
and  paternal  concern,  hke  the  swirling  storms  of  great  Urizen  beyond  the 
hurtling  gyrestorm  clouds.  “You  can’t  die.  No  one  will  die.” 

“I  know  that.  No  one  will  die,  we  will  all  be  changed,  or  sleep  with  the 
world.  But . . .” 

“Is  it  frightening,  to  have  to  give  up  this  body?” 

She  touched  her  forehead  to  her  knees,  shook  her  head. 

“I  don’t  want  to  lose  it.  I’ve  only  begun  to  understand  what  it  is,  this  body, 
this  world,  and  it’s  all  going  to  be  taken  away  from  me,  and  all  the  powers 
that  are  my  birthright  are  useless.” 

“There  are  forces  beyond  even  nanotechnology,”  the  man  said.  ‘Tt  makes  us 
masters  of  matter,  but  the  fundamental  dimensions — gravity,  space,  time — it 
cannot  touch.” 

“Why?”  the  woman  said,  and  to  the  man,  who  counted  by  older,  longer 
years,  she  spoke  in  the  voice  of  her  terrestrial  age. 

We  will  learn  it,  in  time,”  the  man  said,  which  he  knew  was  no  answer. 
The  woman  knew  it  too,  for  she  said,  ‘While  Ore  is  two  hundred  million  years 
from  the  warmth  of  the  next  sun,  and  its  atmosphere  is  a frozen  glaze  on 
these  mountains  and  valleys.”  Grief,  he  skin  said.  Rage.  Loss. 

The  two-thousand-year-old  father  touched  the  young  woman’s  small,  up- 
turned breasts. 

‘We  knew  Urizen’s  orbit  was  unstable,  but  no  one  could  have  predicted  the 
interaction  with  Ulro.”  Ironic:  that  this  world  named  after  Blake’s  fire  dae- 
mon should  be  the  one  cast  into  darkness  and  ice,  while  Urizen  and  its  sur- 
viving moons  should  bake  two  million  kilometers  above  the  surface  of  Los. 

“Sol,  you  don’t  need  to  apologize  to  me  for  mistakes  you  made  two  thousand 
years  ago,”  said  the  woman,  whose  name  was  Lenya. 

“But  I think  I need  to  apologize  to  the  world,”  said  Sol  Gursky. 

Lenya’s  skin-speech  now  said  hope  shaded  with  inevitability.  Her  nipples 
were  erect.  Sol  bent  to  them  again  as  the  wind  from  the  end  of  the  world 
scratched  its  claws  over  the  skin  of  tectoplastic. 


no 


Ion  McDonald 


Asimov's 


In  the  morning,  they  continued  the  journey  to  Sol’s  memories.  The 
gyrestorm  had  blown  itself  out  in  the  Oothoon  mountains.  What  remained  of 
the  ghost-net  told  Sol  and  Lenya  that  it  was  possible  to  fly  that  day.  They 
suckled  milch  from  the  shell’s  tree  of  life  processor,  and  they  had  sex  again 
on  the  dusty  earth  while  the  elementals  reconfigured  the  night  pod  into  a 
general  utility  flier.  For  the  rest  of  the  morning,  they  passed  over  a plain 
across  which  grazebeasts  and  the  tall,  predatory  angularities  of  the  stalking 
Systems  Maintenance  people  moved  like  ripples  on  a lake,  drawn  to  the 
Heaven  Tree  planted  in  the  navel  of  the  world. 

Both  grazers  and  herders  had  been  human  once. 

At  noon,  the  man  and  the  woman  encountered  a flyer  of  the  Generous  Sky 
people,  flapping  a silk-winged  course  along  the  thermal  lines  rising  from  the 
feet  of  the  Big  Chrysolite  mountains.  Sol  with-hailed  him,  and  they  set  down 
together  in  a clearing  in  the  bitter-root  forests  that  carpeted  much  of 
Coryphee  Canton.  The  Generous  Sky  man’s  etiquette  would  normally  have 
compelled  him  to  disdain  those  ground  bound  who  sullied  the  air  with  ma- 
chines, but  in  these  urgent  times,  the  old  ways  were  breaking. 

Whither  bound?  Sol  withspoke  him.  Static  crackled  in  his  skull.  The  lin- 
gering tail  of  the  gyrestorm  was  throwing  off  electromagnetic  disturbances. 

Why,  the  Heaven  Tree  of  course,  the  winged  man  said.  He  was  a horrifying 
kite  of  translucent  skin  over  stick  bones  and  sinews.  His  breast  was  like  the 
prow  of  a ship,  his  muscles  twitched  and  realigned  as  he  shifted  from  foot  to 
foot,  uncomfortable  on  the  earth.  A gentle  breeze  wafted  from  the  nanofans 
grown  out  of  the  web  of  skin  between  wrists  and  ankles.  The  air  smelled  of 
strange  sweat.  Whither  yourselves? 

The  Heaven  Tree  also,  in  time,  Sol  said.  But  I must  first  recover  my  memo- 
ries. 

Ah,  a father,  the  Sky  man  said.  Whose  are  you? 

Hidden  Design,  Sol  said.  I am  father  to  this  woman  and  her  people. 

You  are  Solomon  Gursky,  the  flying  man  withsaid.  My  progenitor  is  Nikos 
Samitreides. 

I remember  her  well,  though  I have  not  seen  her  in  many  years.  She  fought 
bravely  at  the  battle  of  St.  Judy’s  Comet. 

I am  third  of  her  lineage.  Eighteen  hundred  years  1 have  been  on  this  world. 

A question,  if  I may.  Lenya’s  withspeech  was  a sudden  bright  interruption 
in  the  dialogue  of  old  men.  Using  an  honorific  by  which  a younger  adult  ad- 
dresses an  experienced  senior,  she  asked.  When  the  time  comes,  how  will  you 
change? 

An  easy  question,  the  Generous  Sky  man  said,  I shall  undergo  the  reconfig- 
uration for  life  on  Urizen.  To  me,  it  is  little  difference  whether  1 wear  the  out- 
ward semblance  of  a man,  or  a jetpowered  aerial  manta:  it  is  flying,  and  such 
flying!  Canyons  of  clouds  hundreds  of  kilometers  deep;  five  thousand  kilome- 
ter per  hour  winds;  thermals  great  as  continents;  mad  storms  as  big  as  plan- 
ets! And  no  land,  no  base;  to  be  able  to  fly  forever  free  from  the  tyranny  of 
Earth.  The  song  cycles  we  shall  compose;  eddas  that  will  carry  half  way 
around  the  planet  on  the  jet  streams  of  Urizen!  The  Generous  Sky  man’s  eyes 
had  closed  in  rapture.  They  suddenly  opened.  His  nostrils  dilated,  sensing  an 
atmospheric  change  intangible  to  the  others. 

Another  storm  is  coming,  bigger  than  the  last.  I advise  you  to  take  shelter 
within  rock,  for  this  will  pluck  the  bitter-roots  from  the  soil. 

He  spread  his  wings.  The  membranes  rippled.  A tiny  hop,  and  the  wind 
caught  him  and  in  an  instant  carried  him  up  into  a thermal.  Sol  and  Lenya 


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watched  him  glide  the  tops  of  the  lifting  air  currents  until  he  was  lost  in  the 
deep  blue  sky. 

For  exercise  and  the  conversation  of  the  way,  they  walked  that  afternoon. 
They  followed  the  migration  track  of  the  Rough  Trading  people  through  the 
tieve  forests  of  south  Coryphee  and  Emberwilde  Cantons.  Toward  evening,  with 
the  gathering  wind  stirring  the  needles  of  the  tieves  to  gossip,  they  met  a man 
of  the  Ash  species  sitting  on  a chair  in  a small  clearing  among  the  trees.  He 
was  long  and  coiling,  and  his  skin  said  that  he  was  much  impoverished  from 
lack  of  a host.  Lenya  offered  her  arm,  and  though  the  Ash  man’s  compatibihty 
was  more  with  the  Buried  Communication  people  than  the  Hidden  Design,  he 
gracefully  accepted  her  heat,  her  morphic  energy,  and  a few  drops  of  blood. 

“Where  is  your  host?”  Lenya  asked  him.  A parasite,  he  had  the  languages 
of  most  nations.  Hosts  were  best  seduced  by  words,  like  lovers. 

“He  has  gone  with  the  herds,”  the  Ash  man  said.  ‘To  the  Heaven  Tree.  It 
is  ended.” 

“And  what  will  you  do  when  Ore  is  expelled?”  The  rasp  marks  on  Lenya’s 
forearm  where  the  parasitic  man  had  sipped  her  blood  were  already  healing 
over. 

“I  cannot  hve  alone,”  the  Ash  man  said.  “I  shall  ask  the  earth  to  open  and 
swallow  me  and  kill  me.  I shall  sleep  in  the  earth  until  the  warmth  of  a new 
sun  awakens  me  to  life  again.” 

“But  that  will  be  two  hundred  million  years,”  Lenya  said.  The  Ash  man 
looked  at  her  with  the  look  that  said,  one  year,  one  million  years,  one  hundred 
million  years,  they  are  nothing  to  death.  Because  she  knew  that  the  man 
thought  her  a new-hatched  fool,  Lenya  felt  compelled  to  look  back  at  him  as 
she  and  Sol  walked  away  along  the  tieve  tracks.  She  saw  the  parasite 
pressed  belly  and  balls  to  the  ground,  as  he  would  to  a host.  Dust  spiraled  up 
around  him.  He  slowly  sank  into  the  earth. 

Sol  and  Lenya  did  not  have  sex  that  night  in  the  pod  for  the  first  time  since 
Solomon  the  Traveler  had  come  to  the  Old  Red  Ridge  pueblo  and  taken  the 
eye  and  heart  of  the  brown  girl  dancing  in  the  ring.  That  night  there  was  the 
greatest  earthquake  yet  as  Ore  kicked  in  his  orbit,  and  even  a shell  of  tecto- 
diamond  seemed  inadequate  protection  against  forces  that  would  throw  a 
planet  into  interstellar  space.  They  held  each  other,  not  speaking,  until  the 
earth  grew  quiet  and  a wave  of  heat  passed  over  the  carapace,  which  was  the 
tieve  forests  of  Emberwilde  Canton  burning. 

The  next  morning,  they  morphed  the  pod  into  an  ash-runner  and  drove 
through  the  cindered  forest,  until  at  noon  they  came  to  the  edge  of  the  Inland 
Sea.  The  tectonic  trauma  had  sent  tidal  waves  swamping  the  craggy  islet  on 
which  Sol  had  left  his  memories,  but  the  self-repair  systems  had  used  the 
dregs  of  their  stored  power  to  rebuild  the  damaged  architecture. 

As  Sol  was  particular  that  they  must  approach  his  memories  by  sea,  they 
ordered  the  ash-runner  to  reconfigure  into  a skiff.  While  the  tectors  moved 
molecules,  a man  of  the  Blue  Mana  pulled  himself  out  of  the  big  surf  on  to  the 
red  shingle.  He  was  long  and  huge  and  sleek;  his  shorn  turf  of  fur  was  beau- 
tifully marked.  He  lay  panting  from  the  exertion  of  heaving  himself  from  his 
customary  element  into  an  ahen  one.  Lenya  addressed  him  famiharly — Hid- 
den Design  and  the  amphibious  Blue  Mana  had  been  one  until  a millennium 
ago — and  asked  him  the  same  question  she  had  put  to  the  others  she  had  en- 
countered on  the  journey. 

“I  am  already  reconfiguring  my  body  fat  into  an  aircraft  to  take  me  to  the 
Heaven  Tree,”  the  Blue  Mana  said.  “CUmatic  shifts  permitting.” 


112 


Ian  McDonald 


Asimov's 


“Is  it  bad  in  the  sea?”  Sol  Gursky  asked. 

“The  seas  feel  the  changes  first,”  the  amphiman  said.  “Bad.  Yes,  most  bad. 
I cannot  bear  the  thought  of  Mother  Ocean  freezing  clear  to  her  beds.” 

“Will  you  go  to  Urizen,  then?”  Lenya  asked,  thinking  that  swimming  must 
be  much  akin  to  flying. 

“Why,  bless  you,  no.”  The  Blue  Mana  man’s  skin  spelled  puzzled  surprise. 
‘Why  should  I share  any  less  fate  than  Mother  Ocean?  We  shall  both  end  in  ice.” 

‘The  comet  fleet,”  Sol  Gursky  said. 

“If  the  Earth  ship  left  any  legacy,  it  is  that  there  are  many  mansions  in  this 
universe  where  we  may  live.  I have  a fancy  to  visit  those  other  settled  systems 
that  the  ship  told  us  of,  experience  those  others  ways  of  being  human.” 

A hundred  Ore-years  had  passed  since  the  second  comet-ship  from  Earth 
had  entered  the  Los  system  to  refuel  from  Urizen’s  rings,  but  the  news  it  had 
carried  of  a home  system  transfigured  by  the  nanotechnology  of  the  ascen- 
dant dead,  and  of  the  other  stars  that  had  been  reached  by  the  newer,  faster, 
more  powerful  descendants  of  St.  Judy’s  Comet  had  ended  nineteen  hundred 
years  of  solitude  and  brought  the  first,  lost  colony  of  Ore  into  the  visionary 
community  of  the  star-crossing  Dead.  Long  before  your  emergence,  Sol 
thought,  looking  at  the  crease  of  Lenya’s  groin  as  she  squatted  on  the  pebbles 
to  converse  with  the  Blue  Mana  man.  Emergence.  A deeper,  older  word  shad- 
owed that  expression;  a word  obsolete  in  the  universe  of  the  dead.  Birth.  No 
one  had  ever  been  born  on  Ore.  No  one  had  ever  known  childhood,  or  grown 
up.  No  one  aged,  no  one  died.  They  emerged.  They  stepped  from  the  labia  of 
the  gestatory,  fully  formed,  like  gods. 

Sol  knew  the  word  child,  but  realized  with  a shock  that  he  could  not  see  it 
any  more.  It  was  blank,  void.  So  many  things  decreated  in  this  world  he  had 
engineered! 

By  sea  and  by  air.  A trading  of  elements.  Sol  Gursky’s  skiff  was  completed 
as  the  Blue  Mana’s  tectors  transformed  his  blubber  into  a flying  machine.  Sol 
watched  it  spin  into  the  air  and  recede  to  the  south  as  the  boat  dipped 
through  the  chop  toward  the  island  of  memory. 

We  hve  forever,  we  transform  ourselves,  we  transform  worlds,  solar  sys- 
tems, we  ship  across  interstellar  space,  we  defy  time  and  deny  death,  but  the 
one  thing  we  cannot  recreate  is  memory,  he  thought.  Sea  birds  dipped  in  the 
skiff’s  wake,  hungry,  hoping.  Things  cast  up  by  motion.  We  cannot  rebuild 
oim  memories,  so  we  must  store  them,  when  our  lives  grow  so  full  that  they 
slop  over  the  sides  and  evaporate.  We  Five  Hundred  Fathers  have  deep  and 
much-emptied  memories. 

Sol’s  island  was  a rock  slab  tilted  out  of  the  equatorial  sea,  a handful  of 
hard  hectares.  Twisted  repro  olives  and  cypresses  screened  a small  Doric 
temple  at  the  highest  point.  Good  maintenance  tectors  had  held  it  strong 
against  the  Earth  storms.  The  classical  theming  now  embarrassed,  Sol  but 
enchanted  Lenya.  She  danced  beneath  the  olive  branches,  under  the  porti- 
coes, across  the  lintels.  Sol  saw  her  again  as  he  had  that  first  night  in  the 
Small-year-ending  ring  dance  at  Old  Red  Ridge.  Old  lust.  New  hurt. 

In  the  sunlit  central  chamber,  Lenya  touched  the  reliefs  of  the  life  of 
Solomon  Gursky.  They  would  not  3rield  their  memories  to  her  fingers,  but 
they  communicated  in  less  sophisticated  ways. 

“This  woman.”  She  had  stopped  in  front  of  a pale  stone  carving  of  Solomon 
Gursky  and  a tall,  ascetic-faced  woman  with  close-cropped  hair  standing 
hand  in  hand  before  a tall,  ghastly  tower. 

“I  loved  her.  She  died  in  the  battle  of  St.  Judy’s  Comet.  Big  dead.” 


The  Days  of  Solomon  Gursky 


113 


June  1998 


Lost. 

“So  is  it  only  because  I remind  you  of  her?” 

He  touched  the  carving.  Memory  bright  and  sharp  as  pain  arced  along  his 
nerves;  mnemotectors  downloading  into  his  aura.  Elena.  And  a memory  of  or- 
bit; the  Long  March  ended,  the  object  formerly  known  as  St.  Judy’s  Comet 
spun  out  into  a web  of  beams  and  girders  and  habitation  pods  hurtling  across 
the  frosted  red  dustscapes  of  Ore.  A web  ripe  with  hanging  fruit;  entry  pods 
ready  to  drop  and  spray  the  new  world  with  life  seed.  Tectoforming.  Among 
the  fimit,  seeds  of  the  Five  Hundred  Fathers,  founders  of  all  the  races  of  Ore. 
Among  them,  the  Hidden  Design  and  Solomon  Gursky,  four-armed,  vacuum- 
proofed,  avatar  of  life  and  death,  clinging  to  a beam  with  the  storms  of  Ur- 
izen  behind  him,  touching  his  transforming  swr-arms  to  the  main  memory  of 
the  mother  seed.  Remember  her.  Remember  Elena.  And  sometime — soon, 
late — ^bring  her  back.  Imprint  her  with  an  affinity  for  his  scent,  so  that  wher- 
ever she  is,  whoever  she  is  with,  she  will  come  to  me. 

He  saw  himself  scuttling  like  a guilty  spider  across  the  web  as  the  pods 
dropped  Ore-ward. 

He  saw  himself  in  this  place  with  Urizen’s  moons  at  syzygy,  touching  his 
hands  to  the  carving,  giving  to  it  what  it  now  returned  to  him,  because  he 
knew  that  as  long  as  it  was  Lenya  who  reminded  him  of  Elena,  it  could  pre- 
tend to  be  honest.  But  the  knowledge  killed  it.  Lenya  was  more  than  a re- 
minder. Lenya  was  Elena.  Lenya  was  a simulacrum,  empty,  fake.  Her  life, 
her  joy,  her  sorrow,  her  love — all  deceit. 

He  had  never  expected  that  she  would  come  back  to  him  at  the  end  of  the 
world.  They  should  have  had  thousands  of  years.  The  world  gave  them  days. 

He  could  not  look  at  her  as  he  moved  from  relief  to  relief,  charging  his  aura 
with  memory.  He  could  not  touch  her  as  they  waited  on  the  shingle  for  the 
skiff  to  reconfigure  into  the  flyer  that  would  take  them  to  the  Heaven  Tree. 
On  the  high  point  of  the  slah  island,  the  Temple  of  Memory  dissolved  hke  rot- 
ting fungus.  He  did  not  attempt  sex  with  her  as  the  flyer  passed  over  the 
shattered  landscapes  of  Thel  and  the  burned  forests  of  Chrysoberyl  as  they 
would  have,  before.  She  did  not  understand.  She  imagined  she  had  hurt  him 
somehow.  She  had,  but  the  blame  was  Sol’s.  He  could  not  tell  her  why  he  had 
suddenly  expelled  himself  from  her  warmth.  He  knew  that  he  should,  that  he 
must,  but  he  could  not.  He  changed  his  skin-speech  to  passive,  mute,  and  re- 
flected that  much  cowardice  could  be  learned  in  five  hundred  long-years. 

They  came  with  the  evening  to  the  Skyplain  plateau  from  which  the  Heav- 
en Tree  rose,  an  adamantine  black  ray  aimed  at  the  eye  of  Urizen.  As  far  as 
they  could  see,  the  plain  twinkled  with  the  lights  and  fires  of  vehicles  and 
camps.  Warmsight  showed  a million  glowings:  all  the  peoples  of  Ore,  save 
those  who  had  chosen  to  go  into  the  earth,  had  gathered  in  this  final  redoubt. 
Seismic  stabilizing  tectors  woven  into  the  moho  held  steady  the  quakes  that 
had  shattered  all  other  lands,  but  temblors  of  increasing  violence  warned 
that  they  could  not  endure  much  longer.  At  the  end,  Skyplain  would  crack 
like  an  egg,  the  Heaven  Tree  snap  and  recoil  spaceward  like  a severed  nerve. 

Sol’s  Five  Hundred  Father  ident  pulled  his  flyer  out  of  the  wheel  of  air- 
craft, airships,  and  aerial  humans  circling  the  staUc  of  the  Heaven  Tree  into 
a priority  slot  on  an  ascender.  The  flyer  caught  the  shuttle  at  five  kilometers: 
a sudden  veer  toward  the  slab  sides  of  the  space  elevator,  guidance  matching 
velocities  with  the  accelerating  ascender;  then  the  drop,  heart-stopping  even 
for  immortals,  and  the  lurch  as  the  flyer  seized  the  docking  nipple  with  its 
claspers  and  clung  like  a tick.  Then  the  long  chmb  heavenward. 


114 


Ion  McDonald 


Asimov's 


Emerging  from  high  altitude  cloud,  Sol  saw  the  hard  white  diamond  of 
Ulro  rise  above  the  curve  of  the  world.  Too  small  yet  to  show  a disc,  but  this 
barren  rock  searing  under  heavy  CO^  exerted  forces  powerful  enough  to  kick 
a moon  into  interstellar  space.  Looking  up  through  the  transparent  canopy, 
he  saw  the  Heaven  Tree  spread  its  delicate,  light-studded  branches  hundreds 
of  kilometers  across  the  face  of  Urizen. 

Sol  Gursky  broke  his  silence. 

“Do  you  know  what  you’ll  do  yet?” 

“Well,  since  I am  here,  I am  not  going  into  the  ground.  And  the  ice  fleet 
scares  me.  I think  of  centuries  dead,  a tector  frozen  in  ice.  It  seems  like 
death.” 

“It  is  death,”  Sol  said.  “Then  you’ll  go  to  Urizen.” 

“It’s  a change  of  outward  form,  that’s  all.  Another  way  of  being  human. 
And  there’ll  be  continuity;  that’s  important  to  me.” 

He  imagined  the  arrival;  the  ever-strengthening  tug  of  gravity  spiraling 
the  flocks  of  vacuum-hardened  carapaces  inward;  the  flickers  of  withspeech 
between  them,  anticipation,  excitement,  fear  as  they  grazed  the  edge  of  the 
atmosphere  and  felt  ion  flames  lick  their  diamond  skins.  Lenya,  falling, 
burning  with  the  fires  of  entry  as  she  cut  a glowing  trail  across  half  a planet. 
The  heat-shell  breaking  away  as  she  unfurled  her  wings  in  the  eternal  shriek 
of  wind  and  the  ram-jets  in  her  sterile  womb  kindled  and  roared. 

“And  you?”  she  asked.  Her  skin  said  gentle.  Confused  as  much  by  his 
breaking  of  it  as  by  his  silence,  but  gentle. 

“I  have  something  planned,”  was  aU  he  said,  but  because  that  plan  meant 
they  would  never  meet  again,  he  told  her  then  what  he  had  learned  in  the 
Temple  of  Memory.  He  tried  to  be  kind  and  understanding,  but  it  was  still  a 
bastard  thing  to  do,  and  she  cried  in  the  nest  in  the  rear  of  the  flyer  aU  the 
way  out  of  the  atmosphere,  half-way  to  heaven.  It  was  a bastard  thing  and  as 
he  watched  the  stars  brighten  beyond  the  canopy,  he  could  not  say  why  he 
had  done  it,  except  that  it  was  necessary  to  kill  some  things  Big  Dead  so  that 
they  could  never  come  back  again.  She  cried  now,  and  her  skin  was  so  dark  it 
would  not  speak  to  him,  but  when  she  flew,  it  would  be  without  any  hngering 
love  or  regret  for  a man  caUed  Solomon  Gursky. 

It  is  good  to  be  hated,  he  thought,  as  the  Heaven  'Tree  took  him  up  into  its 
star-lit  branches. 

The  launch  laser  was  off,  the  reaction  mass  tanks  were  dry.  Solomon 
Gursky  feU  outward  from  the  sun.  Urizen  and  its  children  were  far  beneath 
him.  His  course  lay  out  of  the  echptic,  flying  north.  His  aft  eyes  made  out  a 
new  pale  ring  orbiting  the  gas  world,  glowing  in  the  low  warmsight;  the  mil- 
lions of  adapted  waiting  in  orbit  for  their  turns  to  make  the  searing  descent 
into  a new  life. 

She  would  be  with  them  now.  He  had  watched  her  go  into  the  seed  and  be 
taken  apart  by  her  own  elementals.  He  had  watched  the  seed  split  and  expel 
her  into  space,  transformed,  and  bum  her  few  kilos  of  reaction  mass  on  the 
transfer  orbit  to  Urizen. 

Only  then  had  he  felt  free  to  undergo  his  own  transfiguration. 

Life  swarm.  Mighty.  So  nearly  right,  so  utterly  wrong.  She  had  almost 
sung  when  she  spoke  of  the  freedom  of  endless  flight  in  the  clouds  of  Urizen, 
but  she  would  never  fly  freer  than  she  did  now,  naked  to  space,  the  galaxy 
before  her.  'The  freedom  of  Urizen  was  a he,  the  price  exacted  by  its  gravity 
and  pressure.  She  had  trapped  herself  in  atmosphere  and  gravity.  Urizen 


The  Days  of  Solomon  Gursky 


115 


June  1998 


was  another  world.  The  parasitic  man  of  the  Ash  nation  had  huried  himself 
in  a world.  The  aquatic  Blue  Mana,  after  long  sleep  in  ice,  would  only  give 
rise  to  another  copy  of  the  standard  model.  Worlds  upon  worlds. 

Infinite  ways  of  being  human,  Solomon  Gursky  thought,  outbound  from 
the  sun.  He  could  feel  the  gentle  stroke  of  the  solar  wind  over  the  harsh  der- 
mal prickle  of  Urizen’s  magnetosphere.  Sun  arising.  Almost  time. 

Many  ways  of  being  Solomon  Gursky,  he  thought,  contemplating  his  new 
body.  His  analogy  was  with  a conifer.  He  was  a redwood  cone  fallen  from  the 
Heaven  Tree,  ripe  with  seeds.  Each  seed  a Solomon  Gursky,  a world  in  em- 
bryo. 

The  touch  of  the  sun,  that  was  what  had  opened  those  seed  cones  on  that 
other  world,  long  ago.  Timing  was  too  important  to  be  left  to  higher  cogni- 
tions. Subsystems  had  aU  the  launch  vectors  programmed;  he  merely  regis- 
tered the  growing  strength  of  the  wind  from  Los  on  his  skin  and  felt  himself 
begin  to  open.  Solomon  Gursky  unfolded  into  a thousand  scales.  As  the  seeds 
exploded  onto  their  preset  courses,  he  burned  to  the  highest  orgasm  of  his 
memory  before  his  persona  downloaded  into  the  final  spore  and  ejected  from 
the  empty,  dead  carrier  body. 

At  five  hundred  kilometers,  the  seeds  unfurled  their  solar  sails.  The  break- 
ing wave  of  particles,  with  multiple  gravity  assists  frem  Luvah  and  Enithar- 
mon,  would  surf  the  bright  flotilla  up  to  interstellar  velocities,  as,  at  the  end 
of  the  centuries — millennia — long  flights,  the  light-sails  would  brake  the 
packages  at  their  destinations. 

He  did  not  know  what  his  many  selves  would  find  there.  He  had  not  picked 
targets  for  their  resemblance  to  what  he  was  leaving  behind.  That  would  be 
just  another  trap.  He  sensed  his  brothers  shutting  down  their  cognitive  cen- 
ters for  the  big  sleep,  like  stars  going  out,  one  by  one.  A handful  of  seeds  scat- 
tered, some  to  wither,  some  to  grow.  Who  can  say  what  he  will  find,  except 
that  it  will  be  extraordinary.  Surprise  me!  Solomon  Gursky  demanded  of  the 
universe,  as  he  fell  into  the  darkness  between  suns. 


Saturday 

The  object  was  one  point  three  astronomical  units  on  a side,  and  at  its  cur- 
rent 10  percent  C would  arrive  in  thirty-five  hours.  On  his  chaise  lounge  by 
the  Neptune  fountain,  Solomon  Gursky  finally  settled  on  a name  for  the 
thing.  He  had  given  much  thought,  over  many  high-hours  and  in  many  lan- 
guages, most  of  them  non-verbal,  to  what  he  should  call  the  looming  object. 
The  name  that  pleased  him  most  was  in  a language  dead  (he  assumed)  for 
thirty  million  years.  Aea.  Acronym:  Alien  Enigmatic  Artifact.  Enigmatic 
Alien  Artifact  would  have  been  more  correct  but  the  long  dead  language  did 
not  handle  diphthongs  well. 

Shadows  fell  over  the  gardens  of  Versailles,  huge  and  soft  as  clouds.  A for- 
est was  crossing  the  sun;  a small  one,  httle  more  than  a copse,  he  thought, 
stiU  finding  dehght  in  the  notions  that  could  be  expressed  in  this  dead  lan- 
guage. He  watched  the  spherical  trees  pass  overhead,  each  a kilometer  across 
(another  archaism),  enjo5ring  the  pleasurable  play  of  shade  and  warmth  on 
his  skin.  Sensual  joys  of  incarnation. 

As  ever  when  the  forests  migrated  along  the  Bauble’s  jet  streams,  a frenzy 
of  siphons  squabbled  in  their  wake,  voraciously  feeding  off  the  stew  of  bacte- 
ria and  complex  fuUerenes. 


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Solomon  Gursky  darkened  his  eyes  against  the  hard  glare  of  the  dwarf 
white  sun.  From  Versailles’  perspective  in  the  equatorial  plane,  the  Spirit 
Ring  was  a barely  discernible  filigree  necklace  draped  around  its  primary 
Perspective.  Am  I the  emanation  of  it,  or  is  it  the  emanation  of  me? 

Perspective:  you  worry  about  such  things  with  a skeletal  tetrahedron  one 
point  three  astronomical  units  on  a side  fast  approaching? 

Of  course.  I am  some  kind  of  human. 

“Show  me,”  Solomon  Gursky  said.  Sensing  his  intent,  for  Versailles  was 
part  of  his  intent,  as  everything  that  lived  and  moved  within  the  Bauble  was 
his  intent,  the  disc  of  tectofactured  baroque  France  began  to  tilt  away  from 
the  sun.  The  sol-lilies  on  which  Versailles  and  its  gardens  rested  generated 
their  own  gravity  fields;  Solomon  Gursky  saw  the  tiny,  bright  sun  seem  to 
curve  down  behind  the  Petit  Trianon,  and  thought,  I have  reinvented  sunset. 
And,  as  the  dark  vault  above  him  lit  with  stars.  Night  is  looking  out  from  the 
shadow  of  myself. 

The  stars  slowed  and  locked  over  the  chimneys  of  Versailles.  Sol  had  hoped 
to  be  able  to  see  the  object  with  the  unaided  eye,  but  in  low-time  he  had  for- 
gotten the  limitations  of  the  primeval  human  form.  A grimace  of  irritation, 
and  it  was  the  work  of  moments  for  the  tectors  to  reconfigure  his  vision.  Suc- 
cessive magnifications  chcked  up  until  ghostly,  twinkling  threads  of  light  re- 
solved out  of  the  star  field,  like  the  drawings  of  gods  and  myths  the  ancients 
had  laid  on  the  comfortable  heavens  around  the  Alpha  Point. 

Another  click  and  the  thing  materialized. 

Solomon  Gursky’s  breath  caught. 

Midway  between  the  micro  and  the  macro,  it  was  humanity’s  natural  con- 
dition that  a man  standing  looking  out  into  the  dark  should  feel  dwarfed. 
That  need  to  assert  one’s  individuality  to  the  bigness  underlies  all  humani- 
ty’s outward  endeavors.  But  the  catch  in  the  breath  is  more  than  doubled 
when  a star  seems  dwarfed.  Through  the  Spirit  Ring,  Sol  had  the  dimen- 
sions, the  masses,  the  vectors.  The  whole  of  the  Bauble  could  be  easily  con- 
tained within  Aea’s  vertices.  A cabalistic  sign.  A cosmic  eye  in  the  pyramid. 

A chill  contraction  in  the  man  Solomon  Gursky’s  loins.  How  many  million 
years  since  he  had  last  felt  his  balls  tighten  with  fear? 

One  point  three  AU’s  on  a side.  Eight  sextilhon  tons  of  matter.  Point  one 
C.  The  thing  should  have  heralded  itself  over  most  of  the  cluster.  Even  in 
low-time,  he  should  have  had  more  time  to  prepare.  But  there  had  been  no 
warning.  At  once,  it  was:  a fading  hexagram  of  gravitometric  disturbances  on 
his  out-system  sensors.  Sol  had  reacted  at  once,  but  in  those  few  seconds  of 
stretched  low  time  that  it  took  to  conceive  and  create  this  Louis  Quattorze 
conceit,  the  object  had  covered  two-thirds  of  the  distance  from  its  emergence 
point.  The  high-time  of  created  things  gave  him  perspective. 

Bear  you  grapes  or  poison?  Solomon  Gursky  asked  the  thing  in  the  sky.  It 
had  not  spoken,  it  had  remained  silent  through  all  attempts  to  communicate 
with  it,  but  it  surely  bore  some  gift.  The  manner  of  its  arrival  had  only  one 
explanation:  the  thing  manipulated  worm-holes.  None  of  the  civilization/citi- 
zens of  the  Reach — most  of  the  western  hemisphere  of  the  galaxy — had 
evolved  a nanotechnology  that  could  reconfigure  the  continuum  itself. 

None  of  the  civilization/citizens  of  the  Reach,  and  those  federations  of 
world-societies  it  fringed,  had  ever  encountered  a species  that  could  not  be 
sourced  to  the  Alpha  Point:  that  semi-legendary  racial  big  bang  from  which 
PanHumanity  had  exploded  into  the  universe. 

Four  hundred  bilhon  stars  in  this  galaxy  alone,  Solomon  Gursky  thought. 


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117 


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We  have  not  seeded  even  half  of  them.  The  trick  we  play  with  time,  slowing 
our  perceptions  until  our  light-speed  communications  seem  instantaneous 
and  the  journeys  of  our  C-fractional  ships  are  no  longer  than  the  sea-voyages 
of  this  era  I have  reconstructed,  seduce  us  into  believing  that  the  universe  is 
as  close  and  companionable  as  a lover’s  body,  and  as  familiar.  The  five  mil- 
lion years  between  the  MonoHumanity  of  the  Alpha  Point  and  the  PanHu- 
manity  of  the  Great  Leap  Outward,  is  a catch  of  breath,  a contemplative 
pause  in  our  conversation  with  ourselves.  Thirty  million  years  I have  evolved 
the  web  of  life  in  this  unique  system:  there  is  abundant  time  and  space  for 
true  aliens  to  have  caught  us  up,  to  have  already  surpassed  us. 

Again,  that  tightening  of  the  scrotum.  Sol  Gursky  willed  Versailles  back  to- 
ward the  eye  of  the  sun,  but  intellectual  chill  had  invaded  his  soul.  The  or- 
chestra of  Lully  made  fete  galante  in  the  Hall  of  Mirrors  for  his  pleasure,  but 
the  sound  in  his  head  of  the  destroying,  rushing  alien  mass  shrieked  louder. 
As  the  solar  parasol  slipped  between  Versailles  and  the  sun  and  he  settled  in 
twilight  among  the  soft,  powdered  breasts  of  the  ladies  of  the  bed-chamber, 
he  knew  fear  for  the  first  time  in  thirty  million  years. 

And  he  dreamed.  The  dream  took  the  shape  of  a memory,  recontextuahzed, 
reconfigured,  resurrected.  He  dreamed  that  he  was  a starship  wakened  from 
fifty  thousand  years  of  death  by  the  warmth  of  a new  sun  on  his  solar  sail. 
He  dreamed  that  in  the  vast  sleep  the  star  toward  which  he  had  aimed  him- 
self spastically  novaed.  It  kicked  off  its  photosphere  in  a nebula  of  radiant 
gas  but  the  explosion  was  underpowered;  the  carbon/hydrogen/nitrogen/oxy- 
gen plasma  was  drawn  by  gravity  into  a bubble  of  hydrocarbons  around  the 
star.  An  aura.  A bright  bauble.  In  Solomon  Gursky’s  dream,  an  angel  floated 
effortlessly  on  tectoplastic  wings  hundreds  of  kilometers  wide,  banking  and 
soaring  on  the  chemical  thermals,  sowing  seeds  from  its  long,  trailing  finger- 
tips. For  a hundred  years,  the  angel  swam  around  the  sim,  sowing,  nurtur- 
ing, tending  the  strange  shoots  that  grew  from  its  fingers;  things  half-hving, 
half-machine. 

Asleep  among  the  powdered  breasts  of  court  women,  Sol  Gursky  turned 
and  murmured  the  word,  “evolution.” 

Solomon  Gursky  would  only  be  a God  he  could  believe  in:  the  philosophers’ 
God,  creator  but  not  sustainer,  ineffable;  too  street-smart  to  poke  its  omnipo- 
tence into  the  smelly  stuff  of  living.  He  saw  his  free-fall  trees  of  green,  the 
vast  red  rafts  of  the  wind-reefs  rippling  in  the  solar  breezes.  He  saw  the 
blimps  and  medusas,  the  unresting  open  maws  of  the  air-plankton  feeders, 
the  needle-thin  jet-pwwered  darts  of  the  harpoon  hunters.  He  saw  an  ecology 
spin  itself  out  of  gas  and  energy  in  thirty  million  yearless  years,  he  saw  in- 
telligence flourish  and  seed  itself  to  the  stars,  and  fade  into  senescence;  all  in 
the  blink  of  a low-time  eye. 

“Evolution,”  he  muttered  again  and  the  constructed  women  who  did  not 
understand  sleep  looked  at  each  other. 

In  the  unfolding  dream,  Sol  Gursky  saw  the  Spirit  Ring  and  the  ships  that 
came  and  went  between  the  nearer  systems.  He  heard  the  subaural  babble  of 
interstellar  chatter,  like  conspirators  in  another  room.  He  beheld  this  blur  of 
hfe,  evolving,  transmuting,  and  he  knew  that  it  was  very  good.  He  said  to 
himself,  what  a wonderful  world,  and  feared  for  it. 

He  awoke.  It  was  morning,  as  it  always  was  in  Sol’s  Bauble.  He  worked  off 
his  testosterone  high  and  tipped  Versailles  darkside  to  look  at  the  shadow  of 
his  nightmares.  Any  afterglow  of  libido  was  immediately  extinguished.  At 
eighteen  light-hours  distance,  the  astronomical  dimensions  assumed  emo- 


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tional  force.  A ribbon  of  mottled  blue-green  ran  down  the  inner  surface  of 
each  of  Aea’s  six  legs.  Amplified  vision  resolved  forested  continents  and 
oceans  beneath  fractal  cloud  curls.  Each  ribbon-world  was  the  width  of  two 
Alpha  Points  peeled  and  ironed,  stretched  one  point  three  astronomical  units 
long.  Sol  Gursky  was  glad  that  this  incarnation  could  not  instantly  access 
how  many  million  planets’  surfaces  that  equaled;  how  many  hundreds  of 
thousands  of  years  it  would  take  to  walk  from  one  vertex  to  another,  and 
then  to  find,  dumbfounded  like  the  ancient  conquistadors  beholding  a new 
ocean,  another  mUlennia-deep  world  in  front  of  him. 

Solomon  Gursky  turned  Versailles  toward  the  sun.  He  squinted  through 
the  haze  of  the  Bauble  for  the  dehcate  strands  of  the  Spirit  Ring.  A beat  of 
his  mind  shifted  his  perceptions  back  into  low-time,  the  only  time  frame  in 
which  he  could  withspeak  to  the  Spirit  Ring,  his  originating  self.  Self-refer- 
ence, self-confession. 

No  communication! 

None,  spoke  the  Spirit  Ring. 

Is  it  alien?  Should  I be  afraid?  Should  I destroy  the  Bauble? 

In  another  time,  such  schizophrenia  would  have  been  disease. 

Can  it  annihilate  you? 

In  answer,  Sol  envisioned  the  great  tetrahedron  at  the  bracelet  of  informa- 
tion tectors  orbiting  the  sun. 

Then  that  is  nothing,  the  Spirit  Ring  withsaid.  And  nothing  is  nothing  to 
fear.  Can  it  cause  you  pain  or  humiliation,  or  anguish  to  body  or  soul? 

Again,  Sol  withspoke  an  image,  of  cloud-shaded  lands  raised  over  each  oth- 
er like  the  pillars  of  Yahweh,  emotionally  shaded  to  suggest  amazement  that 
such  an  investment  of  matter  and  thought  should  have  been  created  purely 
to  humiliate  Solomon  Gursky. 

Then  that  too  is  settled.  And  whether  it  is  alien,  can  it  be  any  more  alien  to 
you  than  you  yourself  are  to  what  you  once  were?  All  PanHumanity  is  alien  to 
itself;  therefore,  we  have  nothing  to  fear.  We  shall  welcome  our  visitor,  we  have 
many  questions  for  it. 

Not  the  least  being,  why  me?  Solomon  Gursky  thought  privately,  silently, 
in  the  dome  of  his  own  skull.  He  shifted  out  of  the  low-time  of  the  Spirit  Ring 
to  find  that  in  those  few  subjective  moments  of  communication  Aea  had 
passed  the  threshold  of  the  Bauble.  The  leading  edge  of  the  tetrahedron  was 
three  hours  away.  An  hour  and  half  beyond  that  was  the  hub  of  Aea. 

“Since  it  seems  that  we  can  neither  prevent  nor  hasten  the  object’s  arrival, 
nor  guess  its  purposes  until  it  deigns  to  communicate  with  us,”  Sol  Gursky 
told  his  women  of  the  bedchamber,  “therefore  let  us  party.”  Which  they  did, 
before  the  Mirror  Pond,  as  Lully’s  orchestra  played  and  capons  roasted  over 
charcoal  pits,  and  torch-lit  harlequins  capered  and  fought  out  the  ancient 
loves  and  comedies,  and  women  splashed  naked  in  the  Triton  Fountain,  and 
fantastic  lands  one  hundred  million  kilometers  long  slid  past  them.  Aea  ad- 
vanced until  Sol’s  star  was  at  its  center,  then  stopped.  Abruptly,  instantly.  A 
small  gravitational  shiver  troubled  Versailles,  the  orchestra  missed  a note,  a 
juggler  dropped  a club,  the  water  in  the  fountain  wavered,  women  shrieked, 
a capon  fell  from  a spit  into  the  fire.  'That  was  all.  The  control  of  mass,  mo- 
mentum, and  gravity  was  absolute. 

The  orchestra  leader  looked  at  Solomon  Gursky,  staff  raised  to  resume  the 
beat.  Sol  Gursky  did  not  raise  the  handkerchief.  The  closest  section  of  Aea 
was  fifteen  degrees  east,  two  hundred  thousand  kilometers  out.  To  Sol 
Gursky,  it  was  two  fingers  of  sun-lit  land,  tapering  infinitesimally  at  either 


The  Days  of  Solomon  Gursky 


119 


June  1998 


end  to  threads  of  light.  He  looked  up  at  the  apex,  two  other  briUiant  threads 
spun  down  beneath  the  horizon,  one  behind  the  Petit  Trianon,  the  other  be- 
low the  roof  of  the  Chapel  Royal. 

The  conductor  was  still  waiting.  Instruments  pressed  to  faces,  the  musi- 
cians watched  for  the  cue. 

Peacocks  shrieked  on  the  lawn.  Sol  Gursky  remembered  how  irritating  the 
voices  of  peacocks  were,  and  wished  he  had  not  recreated  them. 

Sol  Giusky  waved  the  handkerchief. 

A column  of  white  hght  blazed  out  of  the  gravel  walk  at  the  top  of  the  steps. 
The  air  was  a seethe  of  glowing  motes. 

An  attempt  is  being  made  to  communicate  with  us,  the  Spirit  Ring  said  in  a 
flicker  of  low-time.  Sol  Gursky  felt  information  from  the  Ring  crammed  into 
his  cerebral  cortex;  the  beam  originated  from  a source  of  the  rim  section  of 
the  closest  section  of  the  artifact.  The  tectors  that  created  and  sustained  the 
Bauble  were  being  reprogrammed.  At  h3rper-velocities,  they  were  manufac- 
turing a construct  out  of  the  Earth  of  Versailles. 

The  pillar  of  hght  dissipated.  A human  figure  stood  at  the  top  of  the  steps: 
a white  Alpha  Point  male,  dressed  in  Louis  XTV  style.  The  man  descended 
the  steps  into  the  hght  of  the  flambeau  bearers.  Sol  Gursky  looked  on  his 
face. 

Sol  Giu-sky  burst  into  laughter. 

“You  are  very  welcome,”  he  said  to  his  doppelganger.  “WiU  you  join  us?  The 
capons  will  be  ready  shortly,  we  can  bring  you  the  finest  wines  available  to 
humanity,  and  Tm  sure  the  waters  of  the  fountains  would  be  most  refreshing 
to  one  who  has  traveled  so  long  and  so  far.” 

“Thank  you,”  Solomon  Gursky  said  in  Solomon  Gursky’s  voice.  “It’s  good  to 
find  a hospitable  reception  after  a strange  journey.” 

Sol  Gursky  nodded  to  the  conductor,  who  raised  his  staff,  and  the  petite 
bande  resumed  their  interrupted  gavotte. 

Later,  on  a stone  bench  by  the  lake,  Sol  Gursky  said  to  his  doppel,  “Your 
pohteness  is  appreciated,  but  it  reaUy  wasn’t  necessary  for  you  to  don  my 
shape.  All  this  is  as  much  a construction  as  you  are.” 

“Why  do  you  think  it’s  a pohteness?”  the  construct  said. 

“Why  should  you  choose  to  wear  the  shape  of  Solomon  Gursky?” 

“Why  should  I not,  if  it  is  my  own  shape?” 

Nereids  splashed  in  the  pool,  breaking  the  long  reflections  of  Aea. 

“I  often  wonder  how  far  I reach,”  Sol  said. 

“Further  than  you  can  imagine,”  Sol  II  answered.  'The  playing  Nereids 
dived;  ripples  spread  across  the  pond.  The  visitor  watched  the  wavelets  lap 
against  the  stone  rim  and  interfere  with  each  other.  “There  are  others  out 
there,  others  we  never  imagined,  moving  through  the  dark,  very  slowly,  very 
silently.  I think  they  may  be  older  than  us.  They  are  different  from  us,  very 
different,  and  we  have  now  come  to  the  complex  plane  where  our  expansions 
meet.” 

“There  was  a strong  probabihty  that  they — ^you — were  an  alien  artifact.” 

“I  am,  and  I’m  not.  I am  fully  ^lomon  Gursky,  and  fully  Other.  'That’s  the 
purpose  behind  this  artifact;  that  we  have  reached  a p>oint  where  we  either 
compete,  destructively,  or  join.” 

“Seemed  a long  way  to  come  just  for  a family  reunion,”  Solomon  Gursky 
joked.  He  saw  that  the  doppel  laughed,  and  how  it  laughed,  and  why  it 
laughed.  He  got  up  from  the  stone  rim  of  the  Nereid  pool.  “Come  with  me, 
talk  to  me,  we  have  thirty  million  years  of  catching  up.” 


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His  brother  fell  in  at  his  side  as  they  walked  away  from  the  still  water  to- 
ward the  Aea-ht  woods. 

His  story:  he  had  fallen  longer  than  any  other  seed  cast  off  by  the  death  of 
Ore.  Eight  hundred  thousand  years  between  wakings,  and  as  he  felt  the 
warmth  of  a new  sun  seduce  his  tector  systems  to  the  work  of  transforma- 
tion, his  sensors  reported  that  his  was  not  the  sole  presence  in  the  system. 
The  brown  dwarf  toward  which  he  decelerated  was  being  dismantled  and 
converted  into  an  englobement  of  space  habitats. 

“Their  technology  is  similar  to  ours — I think  it  must  be  a universal  in- 
evitabUity — but  they  broke  the  ties  that  stiU  bind  us  to  planets  long  ago,”  Sol 
II  said.  TTie  woods  of  Versailles  were  momentarily  darkened  as  a sky -reef 
echpsed  Aea.  “This  is  why  I think  they  are  older  than  us:  I have  never  seen 
their  original  form — ^they  have  no  tie  to  it,  we  stiU  do;  I suspect  they  no  longer 
remember  it.  It  wasn’t  until  we  fully  merged  that  I was  certain  that  they 
were  not  another  variant  of  humanity.” 

A hand-cranked  wooden  carousel  stood  in  a small  clearing.  The  faces  of  the 
painted  horses  were  fierce  and  pathetic  in  the  sky  hght.  Wooden  rings  hung 
from  iron  gibbets  around  the  rim  of  the  carousel;  the  wooden  lances  with 
which  the  knights  hooked  down  their  favors  had  been  gathered  in  and  locked 
in  a closet  in  the  middle  of  the  merry-go-round. 

“We  endure  forever,  we  engender  races,  nations,  whole  ecologies,  but  we 
are  sterile,”  the  second  Sol  said.  “We  inbreed  with  ourselves.  There  is  no 
union  of  disparities,  no  coming  together,  no  hybrid  energy.  With  the  Others, 
it  was  sex.  Intercoms.  Out  of  the  fusion  of  ideas  and  visions  and  capabihties, 
we  birthed  what  you  see.” 

The  first  Sol  Gursky  laid  his  hand  on  the  neck  of  a painted  horse.  The 
carousel  was  well  balanced,  the  shghtest  pressure  set  it  turning. 

“Why  are  you  here,  Sol?”  he  asked. 

“We  shar^  technologies,  we  learned  how  to  engineer  on  the  quantum  lev- 
el so  that  field  effects  can  be  appUed  on  macroscopic  scales.  Manipulation  of 
gravity  and  inertia;  non-locality;  we  can  engineer  and  control  quantum 
worm-holes.” 

“Why  have  you  come,  Sol?” 

“Engineering  of  alternative  time  streams;  designing  and  colonizing  multi- 
ple worlds,  hyperspace  and  hyperdimensional  processors.  There  are  more 
universes  than  this  one  for  us  to  explore.” 

The  wooden  horse  stopped. 

“What  do  you  want,  Sol?” 

“Join  us,”  said  the  other  Solomon  Gursky.  “You  always  had  the  vision — we 
always  had  the  vision,  we  Solomon  Gurskys.  Humanity  expanding  into  every 
possible  ecological  niche.” 

“Absorption,”  Solomon  Gursky  said.  “Assimilation.” 

“Unity,”  said  his  brother.  “Marriage.  Love.  Nothing  is  lost,  everything  is 
gained.  All  you  have  created  here  will  be  stored;  that  is  what  I am,  a machine 
for  remembering.  It’s  not  annihilation,  Sol,  don’t  fear  it;  it’s  not  your  self-hood 
dissolving  into  some  identityless  collective.  It  is  you,  plus.  It  is  life,  cubed. 
And  ultimately,  we  are  one  seed,  you  and  I,  unnaturally  separated.  We  gain 
each  other.” 

If  nothing  is  lost,  then  you  remember  what  I am  remembering,  Solomon 
Gursky  I thought.  I am  remembering  a face  forgotten  for  over  thirty  million 
years:  Rabbi  Bertelsmann.  A fat,  fair,  pleasant  face,  he  is  talking  to  his  Bar 
Mitzvah  class  about  God  and  masturbation.  He  is  saying  that  God  con- 


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demned  Onan  not  for  the  pleasiu-e  of  his  vice,  but  because  he  spilled  his  seed 
on  the  ground.  He  was  fruitless,  sterile.  He  kept  the  gift  of  life  to  himself. 
And  I am  now  God  in  my  own  world,  and  Rabbi  B is  smihng  and  saying,  mas- 
turbation, Sol.  It  is  all  just  one  big  jerk-off,  seed  spilled  on  the  ground,  en- 
gendering nothing.  Pure  recreation;  recreating  yourself  endlessly  into  the  fu- 
ture. 

He  looked  at  his  twin. 

“Rabbi  Bertelsmann?”  Sol  Gursky  II  said. 

“Yes,”  Sol  Gursky  I said;  then,  emphatically,  certainly,  “Yes!” 

Solomon  Gursky  IPs  smile  dissolved  into  motes  of  hght. 

All  at  once,  the  outer  edges  of  the  great  tetrahedron  kindled  with  ten  mil- 
lion points  of  diamond  light.  Sol  watched  the  white  beams  sweep  through  the 
Bauble  and  understood  what  it  meant,  that  they  could  manipulate  time  and 
space.  Even  at  hght-speed,  Aea  was  too  huge  for  such  simultaneity. 

Air  trees,  sky  reefs,  harpooners,  siphons,  blimps,  zeps,  cloud  sharks:  every- 
thing touched  by  the  moving  beams  was  analyzed,  comprehended,  stored. 
Recording  angels,  Sol  Gursky  thought,  as  the  silver  knives  dissected  his 
world.  He  saw  the  Spirit  Ring  unravel  like  coils  of  DNA  as  a billion  days  of 
Solomon  Gursky  flooded  up  the  ladder  of  light  into  Aea.  The  center  no  longer 
held;  the  gravitational  forces  the  Spirit  Ring  had  controUed,  that  had  main- 
tained the  ecosphere  of  the  Bauble,  were  failing.  Sol’s  world  was  dying.  He 
felt  no  pain,  no  sorrow,  no  regret,  but  rather  a savage  joy,  an  urgent  desire  to 
be  up  and  on  and  out,  to  be  free  of  this  great  weight  of  life  and  gravity.  It  is 
not  dying,  he  thought.  Nothing  ever  dies. 

He  looked  up.  An  angel-beam  scored  a searing  arc  across  the  rooftops  of 
Versailles.  He  opened  his  arms  to  it  and  was  taken  apart  by  the  hght.  Every- 
thing is  held  and  recreated  in  the  mind  of  God.  Unremembered  by  the  mind 
of  Solomon  Gursky,  Versailles  disintegrated  into  swarms  of  free-flying  tec- 
tors. 

The  end  came  quickly.  The  angels  reached  into  the  photosphere  of  the  star 
and  the  complex  quasi-information  machines  that  worked  there.  The  sun 
grew  restless,  woken  from  its  long  quietude.  The  Spirit  Ring  collapsed.  Frag- 
ments spim  end-over-end  through  the  Bauble,  tearing  spectacularly  through 
the  dying  sky-reefs,  shattering  cloud  forests,  blazing  in  brief  glory  in  funeral 
orbits  around  the  swelling  sun. 

For  the  sun  was  dying.  Plagues  of  sunspots  pocked  its  chromosphere;  solar 
storms  raced  from  pole  to  pole  in  million-kilometer  tsunamis.  Panicked 
hunter  packs  kindled  and  died  in  the  solar  protuberances  hurled  off  as  the 
photosphere  prominenced  to  the  very  edge  of  the  Bauble.  The  sun  bulged  and 
swelled  like  a painfully  infected  pregnancy:  Aea  was  manipulating  funda- 
mental forces,  loosening  the  bonds  of  gravity  that  held  the  system  together. 
At  the  end,  it  would  require  aU  the  energies  of  stEur-death  to  power  the  quan- 
tum worm-hole  processors. 

The  star  was  now  a screaming  saucer  of  gas.  No  living  thing  remained  in 
the  Bauble.  All  was  held  in  the  mind  of  Aea. 

The  star  burst.  The  energies  of  the  nova  should  have  boiled  Aea’s  oceans, 
seared  its  lands  from  their  beds.  It  should  have  twisted  and  snapped  the 
long,  thin  arms  like  yarrow  stalks,  sent  the  artifact  tumbling  like  a smashed 
Faberge  egg  through  space.  But  Aea  had  woven  its  defenses  strong:  gravity 
fields  warped  the  electromagnetic  radiation  around  the  fragile  terrains;  the 
quantum  processors  devoured  the  storm  of  charged  particles,  and  reconfig- 
ured space,  time,  mass. 


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The  four  corners  of  Aea  burned  brighter  than  the  dying  sun  for  an  instant. 
And  it  was  gone;  under  space  and  time,  to  worlds  and  adventures  and  expe- 
riences beyond  all  saying. 


Sunday 

Toward  the  end  of  the  universe,  Solomon  Gursky’s  thoughts  turned  in- 
creasingly to  lost  loves. 

Had  it  been  entirely  physical,  Ua  would  have  been  the  largest  object  in  the 
universe.  Only  its  fronds,  the  twenty-light-year-long  stalactites  that  grew 
into  the  ylem,  tapping  the  energies  of  decreation,  had  any  material  element. 
Most  of  Ua,  ninety-nine  followed  by  several  volumes  of  decimal  nines  percent 
of  its  structure,  was  folded  though  eleven-space.  It  was  the  largest  object  in 
the  universe  in  that  its  fifth  and  sixth  dimensional  forms  contained  the  in- 
choate energy  flux  known  as  the  universe.  Its  higher  dimensions  contained 
only  itself,  several  times  over.  It  was  infvmdibular.  It  was  vast,  it  contained 
multitudes. 

PanLife,  that  amorphous,  multi-faceted  cosmic  infection  of  human,  trans- 
human, non-human,  PanHuman  sentiences,  had  filled  the  universe  long  be- 
fore the  continuum  reached  its  elastic  limit  and  began  to  contract  under  the 
weight  of  dark  matter  and  heavy  neutrinos.  Femtotech,  hand  in  hand  with 
the  worm-hole  jump,  spread  PanLife  across  the  galactic  super-clusters  in  a 
blink  of  God’s  eye. 

There  was  no  humanity,  no  alien.  No  us,  no  other.  There  was  only  life.  The 
dead  had  become  life.  Life  had  become  Ua;  Pan-spermia.  Ua  woke  to  con- 
sciousness, and  like  Alexander  the  Great,  despaired  when  it  had  no  new 
worlds  to  conquer.  The  universe  had  grown  old  in  Ua’s  gestation;  it  had  with- 
ered, it  contracted,  it  drew  in  on  itself.  The  red  shift  of  galaxies  had  turned 
blue.  And  Ua,  which  owned  the  attributes,  abilities,  ambitions,  everything 
except  the  name  and  pettinesses  of  a god,  found  itself,  like  an  old,  long-dead 
God  from  a world  slagged  by  its  expanding  sun  millions  of  years  ago,  in  the 
business  of  resurrection. 

The  galaxies  raced  together,  gravitational  forces  tearing  them  into  loops 
and  whorls  of  severed  stars.  The  massive  black  holes  at  the  galactic  centers, 
fueled  by  billennia  of  star-death,  coalesced  and  merged  into  monstrosities 
that  swallowed  globular  clusters  whole,  that  shredded  galaxies  and  drew 
them  spiraling  inward  until,  at  the  edge  of  the  Schwartzchild  radii,  they  ra- 
diated super-hard  gamma.  Long  since  woven  into  higher  dimensions,  Ua  fed 
from  the  colossal  power  of  the  accretion  discs,  recording  in  multi-dimension- 
al matrices  the  hves  of  the  trilhons  of  sentient  organisms  fleeing  up  its  fronds 
from  the  destruction.  All  things  are  held  in  the  mind  of  God:  at  the  end,  when 
the  universal  background  radiation  rose  asymptotically  to  the  energy  density 
of  the  first  seconds  of  the  Big  Bang,  it  would  deliver  enough  power  for  the 
femtoprocessors  woven  through  the  Eleven  Heavens  to  rebuild  the  universe, 
entire.  A new  heaven,  and  a new  Earth. 

In  the  trans-temporal  matrices  of  Ua,  PanLife  flowed  across  dimensions, 
dripping  from  the  tips  of  the  fronds  into  bodies  sculpted  to  thrive  in  the  plas- 
ma flux  of  ragnarok.  Tourists  to  the  end  of  the  world:  most  wore  the  shapes  of 
winged  creatures  of  fire,  thousands  of  kilometers  across.  Starbirds.  Firebirds. 
But  the  being  formerly  known  as  Solomon  Gursky  had  chosen  a different 
form,  an  archaism  from  that  long-vanished  planet.  It  pleased  him  to  be  a 


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thousand-kilometer,  diamond-skinned  Statue  of  Liberty,  torch  out-held, 
beaming  a way  through  the  torrents  of  star-stuff.  Sol  Gursky  flashed  be- 
tween flocks  of  glowing  soul-birds  clustering  in  the  information-rich  environ- 
ment around  the  frond-tips.  He  felt  their  curiosity,  their  appreciation,  their 
consternation  at  his  non-conformity;  none  got  the  joke. 

Lost  loves.  So  many  lives,  so  many  worlds,  so  many  shapes  and  bodies,  so 
many  loves.  They  had  been  wrong,  those  ones  back  at  the  start,  who  had  said 
that  love  did  not  survive  death.  He  had  been  wrong.  It  was  eternity  that 
killed  love.  Love  was  a thing  measured  by  human  lifetimes.  Immortality  gave 
it  time  enough,  and  space,  to  change,  to  become  things  more  than  love,  or 
dangerously  other.  None  endured.  None  would  endure.  Immortality  was  end- 
less change. 

Toward  the  end  of  the  universe,  Solomon  Gursky  reahzed  that  what  made 
love  live  forever  was  death. 

All  things  were  held  in  Ua,  awaiting  resurrection  when  time,  space,  and 
energy  fused  and  ceased  to  be.  Most  painful  among  Sol’s  stored  memories 
was  the  remembrance  of  a red-yellow  tiger-striped  angel  fighter,  half-cruci- 
fied, crippled,  tumbling  toward  the  star  clouds  of  Virgo.  Sol  had  searched  the 
trillions  of  souls  roosting  in  Ua  for  Elena;  failing,  he  hunted  for  any  that 
might  have  touched  her,  hold  some  memory  of  her.  He  found  none.  As  the 
universe  contracted — as  fast  and  inevitable  as  a long-forgotten  season  in  the 
ultra-low  time  of  Ua — Sol  Gursky  entertained  hopes  that  the  universal  gath- 
ering would  draw  her  in.  Cruel  truths  pecked  at  his  perceptions:  calculations 
of  molecular  deliquescence,  abrasion  by  interstellar  dust  clouds,  probabilities 
of  stellar  impacts,  the  slow  terminal  whine  of  proton  decay;  any  of  which  de- 
nied that  Elena  could  still  exist.  Sol  refused  those  truths.  A thousand-kilo- 
meter  Statue  of  Liberty  searched  the  dwindling  cosmos  for  one  glimpse  of 
red-yellow  tiger-stripes  embedded  in  a feather  of  fractal  plasma  flame. 

And  now  a glow  of  recognition  had  impinged  on  his  senses  laced  through 
the  Eleven  Heavens. 

Her.  It  had  to  be  her. 

Sol  Gursky  flew  to  an  eye  of  gravitational  stability  in  the  flux  and  activat- 
ed the  worm-hole  nodes  seeded  throughout  his  diamond  skin.  Space  opened 
and  folded  like  an  exercise  in  origami.  Sol  Gursky  went  elsewhere. 

The  starbird  grazed  the  energy-dense  borderlands  of  the  central  accretion 
disc.  It  was  immense.  Sol’s  Statue  of  Liberty  was  a frond  of  one  of  its  thou- 
sand flight  feathers,  but  it  sensed  him,  welcomed  him,  folded  its  wings 
around  him  as  it  drew  him  to  the  shifting  pattern  of  sun-sf)ots  that  was  the 
soul  of  its  being. 

He  knew  these  patterns.  He  remembered  these  emotional  flavors.  He  re- 
called this  love.  He  tried  to  perceive  if  it  were  her,  her  journeys,  her  trials, 
her  experiences,  her  agonies,  her  vastenings. 

Would  she  forgive  him? 

'The  soul  spots  opened.  Solomon  Gursky  was  drawn  inside.  Clouds  of  tec- 
tors  interpenetrated,  exchanging,  sharing,  recording.  Intellectual  inter- 
course. 

He  entered  her  adventures  among  alien  species  five  times  older  than  Pan- 
Humanity,  an  alliance  of  wills  and  powers  waking  a galaxy  to  life.  In  an  ear- 
lier incarnation,  he  walked  the  worlds  she  had  become,  passed  through  the 
dynasties  and  races  and  species  she  had  propagated.  He  made  with  her  the 
long  crossings  between  stars  and  clusters,  clusters  and  galaxies.  Earlier  stUl, 
and  he  swam  with  her  through  the  cloud  canyons  of  a gas  giant  world  called 


124 


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Urizen,  and  when  that  world  was  hugged  too  warmly  by  its  sun,  changed 
mode  with  her,  embarked  with  her  on  the  search  for  new  places  to  live. 

In  the  nakedness  of  their  communion,  there  was  no  hiding  Sol  Gursky’s  de- 
spair. 

I’m  sorry  Sol,  the  starbird  once  known  as  Lenya  communicated. 

You  have  nothing  to  sorry  be  for,  Solomon  Gursky  said. 

I’m  sorry  that  I’m  not  her.  I’m  sorry  I never  was  her. 

I made  you  to  be  a lover,  Sol  withspoke.  But  you  became  something  older, 
something  richer,  something  we  have  lost. 

A daughter,  Lenya  said. 

Unmeasurable  time  passed  in  the  blue  shift  at  the  end  of  the  universe. 
Then  Lenya  asked.  Where  will  you  go? 

Finding  her  is  the  only  unfinished  business  I have  left,  Sol  said. 

Yes,  the  starbird  commimed.  But  we  will  not  meet  again. 

No,  not  in  this  universe. 

Nor  any  other.  And  that  is  death,  eternal  separation. 

My  unending  regret,  Sol  Gursky  withspoke  as  Lenya  opened  her  heart  and 
the  clouds  of  tectors  separated.  Good  bye,  daughter. 

The  Statue  of  Liberty  disengaged  from  the  body  of  the  starbird.  Lenya’s 
quantum  processors  created  a pool  of  gravitational  calm  in  the  maelstrom. 
M Gursky  manipulated  space  and  time  and  disappeared. 

He  re-entered  the  continuum  as  close  as  he  dared  to  a frond.  A pulse  of  his 
mind  brought  him  within  reach  of  its  dendrites.  As  they  drew  him  in,  anoth- 
er throb  of  thought  dissolved  the  Statue  of  Liberty  joke  into  the  plasma  flux. 
Solomon  Gursky  howled  up  the  dendrite,  through  the  frond,  into  the  soul  ma- 
trix of  Ua.  There  he  carved  a niche  in  the  eleventh  and  highest  heaven,  and 
from  deep  under  time,  watched  the  universe  end. 

As  he  had  exptected,  it  ended  in  fire  and  hght  and  glory.  He  saw  space  and 
time  curve  inward  beyond  the  limit  of  the  Planck  dimensions;  he  felt  the  en- 
ergy gradients  climb  toward  infinity  as  the  universe  approached  the  zero- 
point  from  which  it  had  spontaneously  emerged.  He  felt  the  universal  proces- 
sors sown  through  eleven  dimensions  seize  that  energy  before  it  faded,  and 
put  it  to  work.  It  was  a surge,  a spurt  of  power  and  passion,  like  the  memory 
of  orgasm  buried  deep  in  the  chain  of  memory  that  was  the  days  of  Solomon 
Gursky.  Light  to  power,  power  to  memory,  memory  to  flesh.  Ua’s  stored 
memories,  the  history  of  every  particle  in  the  former  universe,  were  woven 
into  being.  Smart  superstrings  rolled  balls  of  wrapped  eleven-space  like  sa- 
cred scarabs  wheeling  dung.  Space,  time,  mass,  energy  imraveled;  as  the  uni- 
verse died  in  a quantum  fluctuation,  it  was  reborn  in  primal  light. 

To  Solomon  Gursky,  waiting  in  low-time  where  aeons  were  breaths,  it 
seemed  like  creation  by  fiat.  A brief,  bright  light,  and  galaxies,  clusters,  stars, 
turned  whole-formed  and  hving  within  his  contemplation.  Already  personas 
were  swarming  out  of  Ua’s  honeycomb  cells  into  time  and  incarnation,  but 
what  had  been  reborn  was  not  a universe,  but  universes.  The  re-resurrected 
were  not  condemned  to  blindly  recapitulate  their  former  lives.  Each  choice 
and  action  that  diverged  from  the  original  pattern  sphntered  off  a separate 
universe.  Sol  and  Lenya  had  spoken  truly  when  they  had  said  they  would 
never  meet  again.  Sol’s  point  of  entry  into  the  new  polyverse  was  a thousand 
years  before  Lenya’s;  the  universe  he  intended  to  create  would  never  inter- 
sect with  hers. 

The  elder  races  had  already  fanned  the  pol5werse  into  a mille  feuille  of  al- 
ternatives; Sol  carefully  tracked  his  own  timeline  through  the  blur  of  possi- 


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125 


June  1998 


bilities  as  the  first  humans  dropped  back  into  their  planet’s  past.  Stars  mov- 
ing into  remembered  constellations  warned  Sol  that  his  emergence  was  only 
a few  hundreds  of  thousands  of  years  off.  He  moved  down  through  dimen- 
sional matrices,  at  each  level  drawing  closer  to  the  time  flow  of  his  particular 
universe. 

Solomon  Gursky  hung  over  the  spinning  planet.  Civilizations  rose  and  de- 
cayed, empires  conquered  and  crumbled.  New  technologies,  new  continents, 
new  nations  were  discovered.  All  the  time,  alternative  Earths  fluttered  away 
like  tom-off  calendar  pages  on  the  wind  as  the  dead  created  new  universes  to 
colonize.  Close  now.  Mere  moments.  Sol  dropped  into  meat  time,  and  Ua  ex- 
pelled him  like  a drop  of  milk  from  a swollen  breast. 

Solomon  Gursky  fell.  Illusions  and  anticipations  accompanied  his  return  to 
flesh.  Imaginings  of  light;  a contrail  angel  scoring  the  nightward  half  of  the 
planet  on  its  flight  across  a dark  ocean  to  a shore,  to  a mountain,  to  a valley, 
to  a glow  of  campfire  among  night-blooming  cacti.  Longing.  Desire.  Fear. 
Gain,  and  loss.  God’s  trade:  to  attain  the  heart’s  desire,  you  must  give  up 
everything  you  are.  Even  the  memory. 

In  the  quilted  bag  by  the  fire  in  the  sheltered  valley  under  the  perfume  of 
the  cactus  flowers,  the  man  called  Solomon  Gursky  woke  with  a sudden  chill 
start.  It  was  night.  It  was  dark.  Desert  stars  had  half-completed  their  com- 
pass above  him.  The  stone-circled  fire  had  burned  down  to  clinking  red  glow: 
the  night  perfume  witched  him.  Moths  padded  softly  through  the  air,  seek- 
ing nectar. 

Sol  Gursky  drank  five  senses  full  of  his  world. 

I am  alive,  he  thought.  I am  here.  Again. 

Ur-hght  burned  in  his  hind-brain;  memories  of  Ua,  a power  like  omnipo- 
tence. Memories  of  a life  that  out-lived  its  native  universe.  Worlds,  suns, 
shapes.  Flashes,  moments.  Too  heavy,  too  rich  for  this  small  knot  of  brain  to 
hold.  Too  bright:  no  one  can  live  with  the  memory  of  having  been  a god.  It 
would  fade — it  was  fading  already.  All  he  need  hold — all  he  must  hold — ^was 
what  he  needed  to  prevent  this  universe  from  following  its  predestined 
course. 

The  realization  that  eyes  were  watching  him  was  a shock.  Elena  sat  on  the 
edge  of  the  fire  shadow,  knees  folded  to  chin,  arms  folded  over  shins,  looking 
at  him.  Sol  had  the  feeling  that  she  had  been  looking  at  him  without  him 
knowing  for  a long  time,  and  the  surprise,  the  uneasiness  of  knowing  you  are 
under  the  eyes  of  another,  tempered  both  the  stiU-new  lust  he  felt  for  her, 
and  his  fading  memories  of  aeons-old  love. 

Deja  vu.  But  this  moment  had  never  happened  before.  'The  divergence  was 
beginning. 

“Can’t  sleep?”  she  asked. 

“I  had  the  strangest  dream.” 

“TeU  me.”  The  thing  between  them  was  at  the  stage  where  they  searched 
each  other’s  dreams  for  allusions  to  their  love. 

“I  dreamed  that  the  world  ended,”  Sol  Gursky  said.  “It  ended  in  light,  and 
the  light  was  like  the  light  in  a movie  projector,  that  CEuried  the  image  of  the 
world  and  everything  in  it,  and  so  the  world  was  created  again,  as  it  had  been 
before.” 

As  he  spoke,  the  words  became  true.  It  was  a dream  now.  This  life,  this 
body,  these  memories,  were  the  solid  and  faithful. 

“Like  a Tipler  machine,”  Elena  said.  “The  idea  that  the  energy  released  by 
the  Big  Crunch  could  power  some  kind  of  holographic  recreation  of  the  entire 


126 


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universe.  I suppose  with  an  advanced  enough  nanotechnology,  you  could  re- 
build the  universe,  an  exact  copy,  atom  for  atom.” 

Chill  dread  struck  in  Sol’s  belly.  She  could  not  know,  surely.  She  must  not 
know. 

“What  would  be  the  point  of  doing  it  exactly  the  same  all  over  again?” 

“Yeah.”  Elena  rested  her  cheek  on  her  knee.  “But  the  question  is,  is  this  our 
first  time  in  the  world,  or  have  we  been  here  many  times  before,  each  a little 
bit  different?  Is  this  the  first  universe,  or  do  we  only  think  that  it  is?” 

Sol  Gursky  looked  into  the  embers,  then  to  the  stars. 

“The  Nez  Perce  Nation  believes  that  the  world  ended  on  the  third  day  and 
that  what  we  are  living  in  are  the  dreams  of  the  second  night.”  Memories, 
fading  like  summer  meteors  high  overhead,  told  Sol  that  he  had  said  this 
once  before,  in  their  future,  after  his  first  death.  He  said  it  now  in  the  hope 
that  that  future  would  not  come  to  pass.  Everything  that  was  different,  every 
tiny  detail,  pushed  this  universe  away  from  the  one  in  which  he  must  lose 
her. 

A vee  of  tiger-striped  tectoplastic  tumbled  end  over  end  forever  toward  Vir- 
go. 

He  blinked  the  ghost  away.  It  faded  like  all  the  others.  They  were  going 
more  quickly  than  he  had  thought.  He  would  have  to  make  sure  of  it  now,  be- 
fore that  memory  too  dissolved.  He  struggled  out  of  the  terrain  bag,  went 
over  to  the  bike  lying  exhausted  on  the  ground.  By  the  hght  of  a detached  bi- 
cycle lamp,  he  checked  the  gear  train. 

‘What  are  you  doing?”  Elena  asked  from  the  fireside.  The  thing  between 
them  was  stiU  new,  but  Sol  remembered  that  tone  in  her  voice,  that  soft  in- 
quiry, from  another  lifetime. 

“Looking  at  the  gears.  Something  didn’t  feel  right  about  them  today.  They 
didn’t  feel  solid.” 

‘Tou  didn’t  mention  it  earher.” 

No,  Sol  thought.  I didn’t  know  about  it.  Not  then.  The  gear  teeth  grinned 
flashlight  back  at  him. 

‘We’ve  been  giving  them  a pretty  hard  riding.  I read  in  one  of  the  biking 
mags  that  you  can  get  metal  fatigue.  Gear  train  shears  right  through,  just 
like  that.” 

“On  brand-new,  two  thousand  dollar  bikes?” 

“On  brand-new  two  thousand  dollar  bikes.” 

“So  what  do  you  think  you  can  do  about  it  at  one  o’clock  in  the  morning  in 
the  middle  of  the  Sonora  Desert?” 

Again,  that  come-hither  tone.  Just  a moment  more,  Elena.  One  last  thing, 
and  then  it  will  be  safe. 

“It  just  didn’t  sit  right.  I don’t  want  to  take  it  up  over  any  more  mountains 
until  I’ve  had  it  checked  out.  You  get  a gear-shear  up  there  . . .” 

“So,  what  are  you  saying,  irritating  man?” 

“I’m  not  happy  about  going  over  Blood  of  Christ  Mountain  tomorrow.” 

‘Yeah.  Sure.  Fine.” 

“Maybe  we  should  go  out  west,  head  for  the  coast.  It’s  whale  season,  I al- 
ways wanted  to  see  whales.  And  there’s  real  good  seafood.  There’s  this  canti- 
na where  they  have  fifty  ways  of  serving  iguana.” 

“Whales.  Iguanas.  Fine.  Whatever  you  want.  Now,  since  you’re  so  wide- 
awake, you  can  just  get  your  ass  right  over  here,  Sol  Gursky!” 

She  was  standing  up,  and  Sol  saw  and  felt  what  she  had  been  concealing 
by  the  way  she  had  sat.  She  wearing  only  a cut-off  MTB  shirt.  Safe,  he 


The  Days  of  Solomon  Gursky 


127 


June  1998 


thought,  as  he  seized  her  and  took  her  down  laughing  and  yelling  onto  the 
camping  mat.  Even  as  he  thought  it,  he  forgot  it,  and  all  those  Elenas  who 
would  not  now  be;  conspirator,  crop-haired  freedom  fighter,  four-armed 
space-angel.  Gone. 

The  stars  moved  in  their  ordained  arcs.  The  moths  and  cactus  forest  bats 
drifted  through  the  soft  dark  air,  and  the  eyes  of  the  things  that  hunted 
them  glittered  in  the  firelight. 

Sol  and  Elena  were  still  sore  and  laughing  when  the  cactus  flowers  closed 
with  dawn.  They  ate  their  breakfast  and  packed  their  small  camp,  and  were 
in  the  saddle  and  on  the  trail  before  the  sun  was  full  over  the  shoulder  of 
Blood  of  Christ  Mountain.  They  took  the  western  trail,  away  from  the  hills, 
and  the  town  called  Redencion  hidden  among  them  with  its  freight  of  resur- 
rected grief.  They  rode  the  long  trail  that  led  down  to  the  ocean,  and  it  was 
bright,  clear  endless  Monday  morning.  • 


Vacuuming  might  do  as 
much  good  for  your 
heart  as  it  does  for  your 
carpets.  That’s  because 
it  gets  you  moving, 
which  helps  reduce  some 
of  your  risk  factors  for 
heart  disease.  Same 
goes  for  other  regular 
physical  activities.  Call 
1-^-AHA-i:SAl  to  get 
in  on  the  action.  Or  visit 
http://www.amhn.org 
on  the  World  Wide  Web. 


American  Heart 
Association^ 

nghUng  Hmrt  Dn»BS» 


TMa  ipac«  provMad  M a puMtc  MTvtc*.  CopyrigM  19M,  American  Heart  AaaocMlon 


128 


Ian  McDonald 


s 


Norman  Spinrad 


THE  EDGE  OF  THE  ENVELOPE 


REQUIEM 

Graham  Joyce 
Tor,  $22.95 

THE  TOOTH  FAIRY 

Graham  Joyce 
Tor,  $22.95 

RIBOFUNK 

Paul  Di  Filippo 

Four  Walls  Eight  Windows,  $20.00 

AMERICAN  GOLIATH 

Harvey  Jacobs 

$t.  Martin's  Press,  $23.95 

EXPIRATION  DATE 

Tim  Powers 
Tor,  $6.99 

HUMPTYDUMPTY 

Damon  Knight 
Tor,  $22.95 

Whether  the  condition  will  be- 
come permanent  remains  to  be 
seen,  but  this  is  clearly  an  era 
in  which  traditional  science  fic- 
tion, which  is  to  say  genre  SF  and 
the  SF  genre,  is  imploding.  In  terms 
of  sales,  numbers  of  titles  pubhshed, 
and,  it  might  be  argued,  even  liter- 
ary interest,  the  former  fantasy  tail 
has  long  since  come  to  wag  the  for- 
mer science  fiction  dog. 

Moreover,  the  science  fiction  seg- 
ment of  the  “SF  genre”  is  now  com- 
mercially dominated  by  media  tie-in 
novels  and  their  franchised  luiiverse 
clones.  And  the  fantasy  segment  of 
the  genre  is  commercially  dominated 
by  formulaic  pseudo-Arthurian  novel 
series  (aka  “High  Fantasy”),  which, 
interestingly  enough,  are  basically 
the  formal  and  psychological  tem- 
plate for  the  endless  Star  Wars  nov- 
els and  films  themselves. 

Under  this  brutal  commercial 


pressure,  the  SF  genre  seems  to  be 
in  the  process  of  losing  the  central 
core  that  has  more  or  less  served  as 
its  armature  for  nearly  three  quar- 
ters of  a century  of  evolutionary  and 
occasionally  devolutionary  changes. 

For  while  literary  movements 
have  come  and  gone  and  left  their  in- 
fluences, what  has  long  given  this 
inherently  experimental  literature 
its  commercial  viability,  and  contra- 
wise  given  this  commercial  genre  a 
literary  dimension,  has  been  the  sin- 
cere down- the- middle  stuff. 

Namely  science  fiction  and  fantasy 
written  in  serviceable  and  accessible 
transparent  prose,  more  or  less  con- 
ventionally structured,  and  featur- 
ing protagonists  with  whom  the  ordi- 
nary reader  can  readily  identify  on  a 
psychological  level,  but  informed  by 
serious  speculative  intent  and  the 
popular  non-dogmatic  transcenden- 
talism that  came  to  be  known  as 
sense  of  wonder. 

Let  us  pause  to  ponder  just  how 
unique  this  presently  endangered 
species  of  popular  hterature  was  and 
is,  how  culturally  precious  that 
which  is  in  danger  of  being  lost. 

Here  was  a commercial  genre  born 
in  the  old  adventure  pulp  magazines 
of  the  first  third  of  the  twentieth  cen- 
tury aimed  primarily  at  adolescent 
males,  which,  over  the  decades,  in 
fits  and  starts,  evolved  into  an  intel- 
lectually credible,  scientifically  ger- 
mane, transcendental  literature 
without  losing  its  popular  base. 

Of  what  other  hterature  in  the  his- 
tory of  the  western  world  can  this 
truly  be  said? 

Generations  of  adolescent  readers 
grew  up  and  through  this  sort  of  ht- 


129 


June  1998 


erarily  accessible  but  intellectually 
challenging  and  spiritually  enliven- 
ing down-the-middle  genre  SF;  edu- 
cated, inspired,  awakened  in  the 
process,  many  of  them. 

Enough,  at  any  rate,  to  make  the 
more  politically,  literarily,  and  psy- 
chologically sophisticated  SF  that  be- 
gan to  be  written  in  the  1950s  at 
least  marginally  commercially  vi- 
able. Enough  to  rescue  the  formally 
and  stylistically  experimental  specu- 
lative fiction  of  the  1960s  and  1970s 
from  the  hermetic  groves  of  acad- 
eme. Enough  to  support  the  cyber- 
punk fiction  that  grew  out  of  the  di- 
alectic between  the  experimentalism 
and  streetwise  radicahsm  of  the  New 
Wave  and  the  technophilia  of  hard 
SF.  Enough,  in  the  end,  to  allow  sin- 
cere and  talented  writers  to  continue 
to  write  SF  into  their  literary  matu- 
rity. Nothing  like  it  in  the  history  of 
the  western  world. 

True,  this  sort  of  stuff  was  never 
the  cutting  edge  of  the  speculative 
and  literary  envelope,  but  without  it 
the  stuff  that  was  probably  would’ve 
ended  up  pubhshed  in  precious  little 
literary  magazines  with  circulations 
of  a few  thousand  and  small  editions 
by  academic  presses  and  none  of  the 
people  writing  it  could  ever  have 
even  contemplated  giving  up  their 
day  jobs. 

It  is  this  sort  of  SF  that  presently 
seems  to  be  in  the  process  of  expiring, 
or  rather  in  the  process  of  being  ex- 
terminated and  replaced  by  the  me- 
dia tie-in  novels  and  the  like,  which, 
instead  of  leading  readers  upward 
and  onward,  are  designed  to  lead 
them  into  buying  more  of  the  same 
cross-marketed  brand  name  product. 

Is  this  then  the  end  of  sincere,  in- 
tellectually demanding,  literarily  in- 
teresting, spiritually  alive  SF? 

I hope  not. 

I dare  to  think  not. 

It  just  may  be  the  beginning  of  the 
end  for  the  mass  readership  for  such 
literature,  and  that  would  create  a 


cultural  void  for  which  our  species 
would  pay  very  dearly  indeed  in  the 
future. 

Indeed — in  terms  of  the  stagnation 
of  the  American  and  Russian  space 
programs,  the  waning  public  interest 
in  cutting  edge  science  and  its  re- 
placement by  millenarianist  para- 
noid UFO  cults  promulgated  by  such 
as  The  X-Files  and  its  clones,  and  the 
lack  of  any  credible  visionary  hope 
for  a non-dystopian  future — for 
which  it  may  be  paying  already. 

But  in  purely  non-commercial, 
non-political,  non-cultural  and  strict- 
ly literary  terms,  even  as  the  center 
crumbles,  there  are  still  interesting 
things  happening  at  the  edges,  as 
there  have  always  been,  and  proba- 
bly always  will  be. 

Paul  Di  Filippo,  for  example,  as 
fiction  writer  and  critic,  has  always 
been  an  inhabitant  of  the  edge  of  the 
envelope  of  speculative  fiction;  in  his 
case,  the  interface  between  science 
fiction  and  what  might  for  want  of  a 
better  term  be  called  the  American 
avant-garde  underground,  the  latter- 
day  literary  inheritors  of  William 
Burroughs  and  the  Beats,  more  or 
less. 

As  a critic,  Di  Fihppo  has  sought  to 
bring  the  literary  goings  on  in  the 
cutting  edge  small  press  and  radical 
literary  magazines  to  the  attention 
of  the  science  fiction  audience.  As 
one  of  the  consistently  interesting 
writers  of  short  speculative  fiction  of 
the  past  decade  or  so,  Di  Filippo  has 
continued,  in  the  tradition  of  Michael 
Moorcock’s  New  Worlds  and  its  es- 
thetic successor  Interzone,  to  apply 
the  full  panoply  of  cutting  edge  liter- 
ary technique  to  the  material  of  sci- 
ence fiction. 

That  much  one  has  come  to  appre- 
ciate and  expect  from  Paul  Di  Filip- 
po, but  Ribofunk  is  something  else 
again. 

Ribofunk  is  a collection  of  mostly 
previously  published  short  stories 
that  either  by  previous  design  or  ret- 

Norman  Spinrad 


130 


Asimov's 


respective  fix-up  cohere  into  some- 
thing like  a novel.  Formally  and 
commercially  speaking,  there’s  noth- 
ing new  about  this.  Indeed  it’s  rather 
retro,  harkening  back  to  the  inno- 
cent days  when  an  SF  series  general- 
ly referred  to  science  fiction  “novels” 
cobbled  together  out  of  novelettes 
published  in  magazines  or  contra- 
wise  when  novels  were  broken  up 
into  novelettes  for  magazine  pubhca- 
tion  in  order  to  make  economic  ends 
almost  meet. 

Of  course  very  few  SF  writers  in 
those  days  were  capable  of  Di  Filip- 
po’s styhstic  snap  and  dash.  Nor  did 
many  of  those  old  short  story  collec- 
tions disguised  as  novels — ^including 
Ray  Bradbury’s  Martian  Chronicles 
— ^hold  together  as  unified  works  this 
well.  And  even  when  they  did,  they 
certainly  didn’t  do  it  this  way,  as  a 
series  of  stylistically  different  parts 
actually  evolving  through  the  book 
as  an  expression  of  the  thematic  ma- 
terial. 

Okay,  that  much  formal  and  styl- 
istic sophistication  one  might  expect 
from  a writer  like  Paul  Di  Filippo — 
not  that  there  are  many  writers  hke 
Di  Filippo — but  that  the  thematic 
material  around  which  Ribofunk  so 
successfully  coheres  is  rather  rigor- 
ous radical  scientific  speculation  is 
something  of  a surprise. 

Ribofunk,  the  title,  is  obviously  a 
deliberate  take  on  “cyberpunk,”  the 
Movement,  and  the  blurb  makes  at 
least  a tongue-in-cheek  pass  at  pro- 
claiming “Ribofunk”  its  successor. 

Tongue-in-cheek? 

Maybe,  since  this  is  where  Di  Fil- 
ippo’s rhetorical  tongue  is  usually  to 
be  found.  But  on  the  other  hand  . . . 

The  cyberpunk  future  is  one  in 
which  computer  technology  reigns 
and  the  street  finds  its  uses  therefor. 
The  Ribofunk  futvme  is  one  in  which 
genetic  engineering  and  molecular 
biology  reign  and  the  streetlife  un- 
surprisingly finds  its  uses  for  design- 
er genes,  bods,  and  drugs. 


But  while  Gibson  and  Co.  let  stylis- 
tic tour-de-force  and  outlaw  sensibili- 
ty compensate  for  (and/or  mask)  a 
certain  shaky  grounding  in  real  com- 
puter technology,  Di  Filippo  herein 
applies  the  same  outlaw  sensibility 
and  even  greater  stylistic  razzmatazz 
to  a truly  convincing  display  of  scien- 
tific credibility. 

Yes,  folks,  underpinning  all  the 
flash  and  dash,  the  drug  trips  and 
the  irony,  and  the  general  brain- 
bending, Ribofunk  is,  unexpectedly, 
hard  science  fiction  in  psychedelic 
furs.  And  as  good  on  that  level  as  it 
is  on  a hterary  level. 

Could  Ribofunk  really  spawn  the 
next  literary  movement  in  specula- 
tive fiction? 

iQuien  sabe? 

SF  could  certainly  use  some  kind 
of  new  hterary  movement  at  the  mo- 
ment, and  especially  one  based  on  a 
new  area  of  scientific  speculation 
that  opens  literary  horizons,  as  com- 
puter technology  did  via  the  cyber- 
punks. 

The  closest  current  potential  suc- 
cessor as  such  an  opener  of  the  way 
is  “nanotechnology,”  a pseudoscien- 
tific transmogrification  of  all-pur- 
pose magic  for  literary  purposes  that 
has  thus  far  produced  a few  interest- 
ing works  and  quite  a bit  of  bullshit. 

It  strikes  me  that  Di  Filippo’s 
transformational  biology,  being 
much  more  scientifically  credible 
and  rooted  than  nanotech  and  closer 
to  home  (namely  our  bodies  and  our 
consciousnesses  and  nothing  virtual 
about  it)  than  cyberspace  at  least 
has  such  a potential. 

Be  that  as  it  may,  that  a writer 
like  Di  Filippo,  generally  regarded  as 
an  avant-garde  literary  stylist,  could 
open  such  a potential  creative  win- 
dow via  old-fashioned  rigorous  scien- 
tific speculation  apphed  in  new  ways 
to  unexpected  material  certainly 
demonstrates  not  only  that  there’s 
still  life  out  there  on  the  cutting  edge 
but  that  the  edge,  as  is  its  wont,  is 


On  Books:  The  Edge  of  the  Envelope 


131 


June  1998 


frequently  not  exactly  found  where 
you  expect  it  to  be. 

Nor  is  avidly  reading  a novel  with 
a title  like  The  Tooth  Fairy  exactly 
where  I would  ever  have  expected  to 
find  myself  being. 

The  Tooth  Fairy? 

What  the  hell  kind  of  title  is  that? 

Quite  a cunning  one,  obviously, 
since  I could  hardly  put  aside  the 
book  without  at  least  perusing  it  to 
find  out  what  sort  of  thing  could  pos- 
sibly be  inside. 

The  opening  line: 

“Clive  was  on  the  far  side  of  the 
green  pond,  torturing  a king-crested 
newt.” 

Huh? 

And  then  the  name  of  the  author 
struck  me — Graham  Joyce. 

Graham  Joyce’s  previous  novel. 
Requiem,  was  a book  that  I had 
somehow  never  gotten  around  to  re- 
viewing but  which  had  greatly  im- 
pressed me — and  now  it  all  came 
flooding  back. 

Requiem  is  a fantasy  novel  set  in 
modern  Jerusalem,  a love  story  of 
sorts,  but  more  strongly  a dark  vi- 
sion quest,  that  of  one  Tom  Webster 
who  travels  there  to  see  an  old  love 
after  the  death  of  his  wife. 

Again,  not  usually  the  sort  of  thing 
I would  find  myself  reading,  but  the 
setting  piqued  my  initial  interest,  as 
did  the  setting  of  Dan  Simmons’s 
Song  of  Kali,  also  not  ordinarily  my 
sort  of  stuff.  How  often  do  you  come 
across  a fantasy  novel  set  in  contem- 
porary Jerusalem  or  Calcutta?  Not 
very,  and  1 have  a certain  fascination 
with  both  venues,  to  neither  of  which 
I’ve  ever  been. 

'That  was  enough  to  get  me  to  open 
Requiem,  and  Joyce’s  writing  did  the 
rest.  Not  that  Graham  Joyce’s  prose 
style  has  the  cutting  edge  dazzle  of  a 
writer  like  Di  Filippo,  being  more  or 
less  conventional  and  transparent, 
but  the  sensibility  it  expresses  im- 
mediately impresses  you  as  adult, 
sophisticated,  deep.  A voice  with  a 


story  to  tell  that  will  not  be  trivial. 

In  the  case  of  Requiem,  the  story  is 
Webster’s  magical  mystery  tour  of 
his  own  psyche  and  Jerusalem  as  the 
two  interpenetrate  and  entwine,  as 
the  city  draws  him  into  its  reality. 

Or  rather  realities,  for  this  is 
Jerusalem,  which  recently  celebrat- 
ed (if  that  is  the  word)  its  official 
3000th  anniversary,  and  which  is 
probably  older  than  that.  The  holy 
city  to  three  major  world  religions, 
which  have  fought  over  it,  in  it,  and 
through  it,  for  a couple  of  millennia, 
politically  and  culturally  fragment- 
ed, volatile,  dangerous,  steeped  in 
several  contradictory  mystical  tradi- 
tions, and  much,  much  more. 

Not  exactly  the  place  to  go  to  get 
your  confused  head  together,  as 
Webster  discovers,  but  in  the  end, 
perhaps,  an  appropriate  arena  for  a 
wrestling  match  with  demons  and 
spirits — those  of  the  city  and  those  of 
one’s  own  inner  space,  though  it’s  not 
easy  to  tell  which  is  which  even  with 
a Biblical  scorecard. 

So  okay.  I’ll  try  another  novel  by 
Graham  Joyce,  even  if  it  is  called  The 
Tooth  Fairy,  if  only  to  find  out  why  a 
serious  writer  like  Joyce  would  slap 
a camp  title  like  that  on  a book. 

The  answer,  surprisingly  enough, 
is  because  a central  character  and 
mythic  archetype  of  the  novel,  the 
mutating  spirit  guide,  bete  noire,  in- 
visible companion,  sexual  succubus, 
who  haunts  Sam,  the  dominant 
viewpoint  character,  from  childhood 
throug  h adolescence  is  indeed  . . . 
the  Tooth  Fairy. 

And  the  novel  is  by  no  means 
hght-hearted  comedy. 

What  it  is  is  the  story  of  the  grow- 
ing up  and  coming  of  age  of  three 
boys  and  a girl  in  contemporary 
small  town  Britain.  The  genius  of 
the  novel  is  that  while  it  is  told  in 
multiple  third  person  viewpoints, 
Joyce’s  sensibility  seems  to  remain 
inside  these  children  as  they  mature 
from  childhood  to  the  edge  of  adult- 

Norman  Spinrad 


132 


Asimov's 


hood,  growing  and  changing  with 
them  as  they  mature. 

As  does  Sam’s  Tooth  Fairy. 

Nor  does  Joyce  either  sentimental- 
ize what  childhood  is  really  like  or 
particularly  demonize  the  matura- 
tional  and  sexual  angst  of  adoles- 
cence. Instead,  he  seems  to  remem- 
ber what  it  really  felt  like  to  be  a 
child  and  then  an  adolescent,  and,  by 
rendering  it  ruthlessly  and  clearly, 
causes  the  reader  to  remember  it 
that  way  too,  whether  one  shares 
much  of  the  cultural  or  geographic 
specificity  of  his  characters  or  not. 

That  opening  line  establishes  it. 
Nice  ordinary  little  kids  do  indeed 
commonly  torture  animals.  Oh  yes, 
they  do.  You  know  they  do.  Think 
back.  Remember  clearly  and  unsen- 
timentaUy.  The  Tooth  Fairy  will  help 
you. 

Sam  first  encounters  the  Tooth 
Fairy  in  the  usual  manner.  Sort  of. 
He  loses  a baby  tooth  and  puts  it  un- 
der his  piUow  so  the  Tooth  Fairy  will 
exchange  it  for  a coin.  Except  he 
wakes  up  when  the  Tooth  Fairy  ar- 
rives and  he  sees  the  creature. 
Which  he’s  not  supposed  to.  And  the 
creature  is  something  out  of  a real 
fairy  tale,  that  is,  the  original  unex- 
purgated Grimm  version,  which 
maybe  your  parents  didn’t  really 
want  you  to  read  at  a tender  age  ei- 
ther. And  the  Tooth  Fairy  is  pissed 
off.  And  scary.  And  dangerous. 

And  so  it  goes. 

No  one  but  Sam  can  see  the  Tooth 
Fairy.  The  Tooth  Fairy  haunts  him 
all  the  way  through  childhood  and 
into  adolescence,  only  finally  leaving 
him  at  the  edge  of  maturity  via  a 
rather  touching  act  of  sexual  magic. 

Oh  yes,  the  Tooth  Fairy  fucks  Sam 
when  the  pubescent  juices  start  to 
flow,  or  rather  Sam  fucks  the  Tooth 
Fairy,  who  mutates  continually, 
sometimes  male,  sometimes  female, 
sometimes  alluring,  sometimes  loath- 
some, sometimes  fighting  his  battles 
for  him,  sometimes  messing  him  up. 


What  does  the  Tooth  Fairy  stand 
for  symbolically?  Too  facile  to  say 
awakening  sexuality  and  leave  it  at 
that.  Childhood  innocence?  Hardly. 
If  the  novel  demonstrates  anything, 
it’s  that  childhood  innocence  is  an 
adult-created  myth,  as  children 
know  all  too  well  at  the  time.  Its  op- 
posite? Maybe.  All  of  the  above  and 
more?  No  doubt. 

Aside  from  the  Tooth  Fairy,  which 
only  one  viewpoint  character,  Sam, 
can  see,  this  is  an  entirely  realistic 
novel  of  growing  up  in  contemporary 
small  town  Britain.  It’s  basically  the 
story  of  three  boys  who  are  friends 
and  end  up  in  competition  for  the 
same  girl  who  is  a member  of  their 
httle  “gang  of  four.”  They  do  the  ordi- 
nary things  kids  do — torture  ani- 
mals, smoke  dope,  blow  things  up, 
lose  limbs,  have  sex,  watch  their 
slightly  older  town  princess  win  a 
beauty  contest  and  go  to  London 
where  she  becomes  a serious  drug 
addict,  seemingly  commit  a murder 
together,  the  usual  stuff. 

Oh  yes  it  is. 

Since  Sam’s  Tooth  Fairy  is  the 
only  fantastic  intrusion  into  an  oth- 
erwise realistic  contemporary  novel 
of  growing  up,  published,  at  least  in 
the  US,  in  an  SF  line,  it  would  be 
tempting  to  suppose  that  Joyce  in- 
jected this  element  to  make  the  novel 
more  marketable. 

Tempting,  but  wrong. 

Somehow,  in  some  strange  way, 
the  Tooth  Fairy  is  a kind  of  realistic 
element,  or  rather  a magic  realist  el- 
ement, a reminder  of  what  really 
lurks  below  the  veneer  of  supposed 
childhood  innocence,  of  what  chil- 
dren really  do  know  about  the  world, 
of  what  they  do  really  do,  of  what  re- 
ally does  motivate  them,  the  sort  of 
things  that  the  adults  they  eventual- 
ly become  manage  to  forget  by  sub- 
conscious acts  of  will  when  con- 
fronting their  own  little  darlings. 

Somehow,  I think,  without  the 
Tooth  Fairy,  many  of  the  events  of 


On  Books:  The  Edge  of  the  Envelope 


133 


June  1998 


the  rest  of  the  novel,  the  explosions 
and  maimings  and  near  buggery  and 
murder,  might  come  across  to  an 
adult  readership — and  The  Tooth 
Fairy  is  most  definitely  written  for 
adults — as  unrealistically  extreme, 
or  at  least  adults  would  be  able  to 
persuade  themselves  that  this  isn’t 
really  what  growing  up  is  like. 

Children,  of  course,  are  not  nearly 
so  naive. 

Sophisticated  idiosyncratic  con- 
temporary fantasy  seems  to  be 
where  much  of  the  cutting  edge  work 
in  the  extended  SF  genre  is  taking 
place  these  days,  perhaps  because 
the  visionary  future-oriented  view- 
point has  been  flagging  in  the  cul- 
ture at  large. 

Indeed,  there  may  be  a negative 
feedback  loop  at  work,  in  which  the 
lack  of  cultural  confidence  in  an  evo- 
lutionarily  positive  futime  results  in 
an  attenuation  of  the  true  specula- 
tive impulse  in  the  literature  of  sci- 
ence fiction,  and  the  dearth  of  vision- 
ary science  fiction  drains  the  general 
cultural  atmosphere  of  visionary  en- 
ergy. 

Be  that  as  it  may,  there  certainly 
seems  to  be  a lot  more  speculative 
energy  these  days  behind  using  fan- 
tasy to  reinvent  the  present  or  the 
past  than  using  science  fiction  to  in- 
vent the  future.  Speculative  fiction  of 
late  seems  to  be  getting  more  and 
more  retro. 

Symptomatic  of  this  trend,  per- 
haps, is  Harvey  Jacobs’ American 
Goliath.  Jacobs,  though  an  excellent 
writer  of  speculative  fiction  who  has 
been  active  for  a long  time,  has  not 
been  what  you  could  call  prolific,  but 
down' through  the  years  his  metier 
has  pretty  much  been  the  contempo- 
rary urban  fantasy  or  near-future 
science  fiction. 

American  Goliath,  however,  is 
something  else  again,  an  historical 
novel  with  some  fantasy  elements,  a 
species  of  what  might  be  called  mag- 
ical historical  surrealism. 


Jacobs  herein  fictionahzes  the  true 
story  of  the  Cardiff  Giant,  one  of  the 
great  nineteenth  century  carny 
scams,  in  which  a phony  petrified 
fossil  human  was  passed  off  on  the 
rubes  as  an  ancient  inhabitant  of 
America  for  some  fun  and  no  little 
profit. 

Jacobs’  research  must  have  been 
exhaustive,  and  more,  he  has  suc- 
cessfully used  it  to  project  his  imagi- 
nation backward  and  give  us  a full- 
blooded  recreation  of  immediate  post- 
Civil  War  America  in  general,  and 
the  New  York  City  of  the  period  in 
particular,  that  manages  to  be  satiri- 
cally humorous  and  realistic  at  the 
same  time. 

P.T.  Barnum  and  General  Tom 
Thumb  are  significant  enough  play- 
ers herein  to  be  viewpoint  charac- 
ters, though  the  main  story  is  carried 
by  George  Hull,  the  “discoverer”  of 
the  phony  giant,  and  various  mem- 
bers of  his  family.  The  phony  giant, 
in  fact  and  in  this  fiction  actually 
carved  out  of  stone,  is  also  given  a 
sort  of  stream-of-consciousness  view- 
point, as  is  Bamum’s  knock-off  com- 
petitor. 

The  result  is  certainly  strange, 
and  for  my  money,  only  partially  suc- 
cessful. Jacobs  herein  is  at  his  best 
when  he  sticks  to  not  straight  but 
somewhat  bent  historical  recreation, 
particularly  of  the  New  York  of  the 
period,  colorful,  funny,  rich  in  sensu- 
al detail,  and  replete  with  amusing 
edgy  characters,  not  only  Barnum 
and  Tom  Thumb,  but  a fictional  yel- 
low journalist. 

On  this  level,  American  Goliath  is  ■ 
entirely  successful.  Bawdy,  boozy, 
blowsy,  earthy,  rough-hewn  baroque, 
pushed  a bit  over  the  larger-than-life 
edge  for  humor’s  sake,  it  somehow 
seems  a truer  recreation  of  the  peri- 
od and  its  spirit  than  more  scrupu- 
lously earnest  historical  accuracy 
ever  could  be. 

Then,  too,  the  story  of  the  Cardiff 
Giant  scam  itself,  though  true,  cer- 


134 


Norman  Spinrad 


Asimov's 


tainly  has  its  surreal  dimension,  as 
somehow  does  the  age  itself,  reeking 
of  sawdust,  horseshit,  cigar  smoke, 
whorehouse  perfume,  and  the  na- 
tional carnival  midway. 

One  questions,  though,  why  the 
straightforwardly  conventional  fan- 
tasy elements — the  stream  of  con- 
sciousness of  the  two  competing  pho- 
ny giants,  the  impregnation  by  stone 
phallus,  other  odds  and  ends  that 
seem  somehow  out  of  place — are 
there  at  all. 

American  Goliath  might  very  well 
have  been  better  as  a straightfor- 
ward piece  of  historical  surrealism, 
the  story  of  the  Cardiff  Giant  being 
bizarre  enough  without  the  more  con- 
ventional (though  hardly  convention- 
ally written)  fantasy  frosting  and  the 
period  itself  ripe  enough  with  extrav- 
agance to  give  off  a fantastic  atmos- 
phere with  just  a Uttle  exaggeration. 

For  my  money,  this  turning  back- 
ward of  the  speculative  imagination, 
this  retro  movement,  seems  to  be  a 
combination  of  flagging  speculative 
imagination  on  the  one  hand  and 
perhaps  a commercial  strategy  by 
which  writers  of  SF  attempt  to  get 
historical  novels  published  on  the 
other. 

The  nadir  of  it  all  being  so-called 
“steampunk,”  and  perhaps  its  sad- 
dest manifestation  being  The  Differ- 
ence Engine,  in  which  William  Gib- 
son and  Bruce  Sterling,  the  literary 
and  theoretical  creators  of  cyber- 
punk and  cyberspace,  collaborated 
on  a quixotic  and  ultimately  point- 
less attempt  to  create  a clunky  Victo- 
rian version  of  same  using  only  gears 
and  levers. 

On  the  other  hand,  Tim  Powers, 
who  has  often  been  identified  with 
this  hopefuUy  abortive  movement,  is 
really  a sui  generis  bird  of  a different 
and  unique  feather. 

If  Harvey  Jacobs  reaches  back 
with  a present-day  speculative  imag- 
ination to  fantasize  the  past  in 
American  Goliath  and  “steampunk” 


like  The  Difference  Engine  attempts 
to  create  a retro  version  of  the  future 
therein  using  available  technology 
(something  Mark  Twain  did  defini- 
tively in  A Connecticut  Yankee  in 
King  Arthur’s  Court,  by  the  way). 
Powers,  in  Expiration  Date,  extracts 
characters  from  the  past,  chief 
among  them  the  shade  of  Thomas 
Edison,  to  fantasize  the  present. 

Well  sort  of. 

Powers  has  written  historical  fan- 
tasy—T/ie  Anubis  Gates  and  The 
Stress  of  Her  Regard,  for  example — 
and  science  fiction  of  sorts  early  on, 
but  his  strongest,  most  interesting, 
and  perhaps  emerging  as  his  most 
characteristic  work,  is  this  sort  of 
thing. 

This  sort  of  thing? 

Just  what  is  “this  sort  of  thing”? 

One  might  almost  call  it  “magical 
science  fiction.” 

Or  contrawise,  “science  fictional 
magic.” 

Powers’  historical  fantasies  are  ex- 
haustively researched  and  therefore 
loaded  with  detail,  but  hardly  what 
anyone  in  their  right  minds  could 
call  accurate,  since  it’s  all  in  the  ser- 
vice of  transmogrif5dng  the  past  into 
something  at  least  as  speculatively 
bizarre  as  an3rthing  in  visionary  fu- 
ture-oriented science  fiction. 

But  even  in  his  historical  fan- 
tasies, Powers  treats  his  fantasy  ele- 
ments on  the  same  sort  of  matter-of- 
fact  level  as  anything  else  in  his 
fictional  universes,  as  more  or  less 
straight  phenomenology,  applying  a 
kind  of  down-to-Earth  science  fic- 
tional attitude  rather  than  a truly 
mystical  sensibility  or  vision,  a sort 
of  neo-Campbellian  systematic  logic. 

It’s  a kind  of  inverse  of  magic  real- 
ism, in  which  fantastic  events  are 
treated  on  the  same  reality  level  as 
problems  with  the  transmission  of 
one’s  car  or  the  junk  food  in  a Mc- 
Donald’s. 

And  in  Expiration  Date,  as  in  the 
previous  Last  Call,  Powers  does 


On  Books;  The  Edge  of  the  Envelope 


135 


June  1998 


much  the  same  thing  only  more  so 
with  the  present.  In  Last  Call,  the 
main  setting  was  contemporary  Las 
Vegas,  in  Expiration  Date  it  is  Los 
Angeles. 

Powers  recreates  contemporary 
Los  Angeles  with  the  characteristic 
attention  to  and  density  of  detail  of 
his  historical  fantasy,  and  here  we 
can  see  that  it’s  as  much  a matter  of 
his  powers  of  observation  and  de- 
scription and  telling  choices  of  specif- 
ic sensory  imagery  as  scholarly  re- 
search, since  he’s  really  lived  there 
and  then. 

But  in  story  and  reality-level 
terms,  he  treats  this  realistically 
contemporary  Los  Angeles  exactly  as 
he  would  treat  an  historical  period, 
filling  it  with  magical  occurrences, 
ghosties  appropriate  to  the  period, 
magical  systems,  spells,  potions,  and 
notions,  precisely  as  if  all  this  were 
as  much  a part  of  quotidian  Los  An- 
geles as  smog  and  freeway  traffic 
jams. 

Of  course,  a case  could  be  made 
that  it  is,  that  this  sort  of  magical 
science  fiction  reality  is  what  life  in 
Los  Angeles  is  really  like,  at  least 
from  the  points  of  view  of  a good 
many  of  its  inhabitants. 

Perhaps  that  is  indeed  part  of 
Powers’  point  herein,  as  he  moves 
among  street  people  and  show  biz 
hangers-on,  brujas  and  sleazy  TV 
impresarios  and  the  shades  of  van- 
ished religious  carny-cult  scam 
artists. 

The  central  McGuffin  being  a 
species  of  spiritual  vampirism  ren- 
dered in  relentlessly  street-real  terms 
as  another  form  of  drug  trade — ad- 
dicts and/or  dealers  sucking  out  souls, 
confining  them  in  vials,  dealing  them, 
stealing  them,  honking  them,  getting 
high  on  them,  ODing,  going  through 
withdrawal,  and  so  forth. 

Interestingly  enough,  the  mighty 
spirit  that  Powers  summons  forth  to 
combat  this  modern  vampirism  is 
one  from  the  past,  and  a Campbel- 


lian  sort  of  hero  too;  Thomas  Alva 
Edison,  whom,  chez  Powers  (and  giv- 
en his  rep  for  meticulous  research  I 
am  inclined  to  believe  him),  dabbled 
in  such  “spiritualist”  matters  in  life 
as  if  they  could  be  “solved”  by  apply- 
ing much  the  same  pragmatic  engi- 
neering techniques  as  inventing  the 
light  bulb  or  the  phonograph. 

And  indeed,  the  battles  leading  up 
to  and  through  the  apotheosis  take 
place  in  almost  Vernian  terms  of  cir- 
cuits and  breakers  and  energy-flows. 

It’s  hard  to  predict  what  Tim  Pow- 
ers will  do  next,  hopefully  I suspect 
for  Powers  himself,  for  on  the  textu- 
al evidence,  he  really  belongs  to  no 
identifiable  movement,  steampunk 
or  otherwise.  Indeed,  his  body  of 
work,  or  indeed  most  of  his  individ- 
ual novels,  don’t  even  really  fit  into 
any  definable  genre,  science  fiction, 
fantasy,  historical,  or  so-called  alter- 
nate history. 

Perhaps  this  is  because  Powers 
doesn’t  perceive  the  literary  universe 
or  even  the  reality  he  inhabits  in 
such  categorical  terms.  And  perhaps 
that  sort  of  sensibility  is  the  perma- 
nent locus  of  the  edge  of  the  enve- 
lope— the  interfaces  between  the 
genres,  or  better  yet,  the  literary 
quantum  soup  in  which  even  such 
interfaces  are  non-existent. 

Or  not. 

There  are  nine  and  sixty  ways. 

There  are  many  paths. 

Take  the  long  strange  trip  of  Da- 
mon Knight  from  his  very  first  pubh- 
cation  in  1945,  a famous  fanzine  de- 
molition of  A.E.  Van  Vogt’s  The 
World  of  Null  A,  to  a novel  like 
Humpty  Dumpty  over  half  a century 
later. 

Damon  Knight  has  lived  a long  life 
in  science  fiction  and  contrawise  the 
history  of  half  a century  of  science 
fiction  is  written  in  the  life  of  Damon 
Knight.  There  are  writers  who  have 
been  at  it  longer — Jack  Williamson 
comes  immediately  to  mind — but 
none  who  have  continued  to  evolve 


136 


Norman  Spinrad 


Asimov's 


through  and  with  speculative  fiction 
as  Knight  has. 

Knight  started,  face  it,  as  a callow 
fan,  a hanger  on,  an  inhabitant  of  a 
so-called  “slan  shack,”  an  SF  com- 
mune of  the  early  1940s.  He  sold  a 
few  stories,  then  became  a Big  Name 
Fan  with  his  trashing  of  Van  Vogt. 

He  became  not  merely  an  SF  critic 
of  note,  but,  along  with  James  Blish, 
one  of  the  main  creators  of  credible 
science  fiction  criticism  itself,  and 
the  field’s  foremost  technical  critic. 
This  would  lead  to  his  creation  of  the 
Milford  Science  Fiction  Writers  Con- 
ferences in  the  1950s  (workshops  for 
published  professionals)  and  the  lat- 
er Clarion  Writers  Workshops 
(wherein  pubhshed  professionals  run 
workshops  for  students)  whose  effect 
over  the  years  on  the  field  has  been 
and  continues  to  be  enormous. 

In  the  1950s,  Knight  worked  as  an 
editor  on  some  secondary  science  fic- 
tion magazines,  but  in  the  1960s,  he 
came  into  his  own  as  an  editor  with 
the  long-running  Orbit  series  of  orig- 
inal science  fiction  anthologies.  This 
series  not  only  established  the  origi- 
nal publication  of  short  SF  in  books 
rather  than  magazines  as  a viable 
mode  that  became  literarily  central, 
but  developed  many  of  the  authors 
who  still  dominate  the  form. 

In  1965,  Knight  conceived  the  no- 
tion of  the  Science  Fiction  Writers  of 
America,  created  the  organization, 
became  its  first  president,  and  even 
edited  its  pubhcations  on  the  side  for 
a time. 

A long  career  in  science  fiction. 

A life  in  science  fiction. 

Of  someone  who  writes  science  fic- 
tion, but  who  has  otherwise  had  a 
long  and  distinguished  career  within 
its  compass,  who  would  be  known  as 
a significant  figure  even  if  he  had 
never  published  a word  of  fiction. 

In  this,  Damon  Knight  has  not 
been  entirely  unique.  There  have 
been  a few  others — Terry  Carr, 
James  Blish,  John  W.  Campbell, 


Frederik  Pohl,  for  example — but 
with  the  exception  of  Pohl,  none 
have  been  at  it  as  long  as  Knight, 
and  not  even  Pohl  has  had  Knight’s 
sta5dng  power  and  influence  as  crit- 
ic, editor,  teacher,  and  apparatchnik. 

And  more  to  the  current  point,  I 
can’t  think  of  anyone  who  has  under- 
gone such  a major  literary  evolution 
at  the  opening  of  his  sixth  decade  as 
a writer  of  speculative  fiction  as  Da- 
mon Knight  has  with  novels  like 
Why  Do  Birds  and  now  Humpty 
Dumpty. 

Knight  was  never  a prolific  pro- 
ducer of  fiction,  save  perhaps  for  a 
certain  period  in  the  1950s  and  into 
the  1960s,  and  was  mostly  noted  for 
his  short  fiction,  not  his  occasional 
novels.  These  stories  tended  to  be 
mordant,  sophisticated,  well-written, 
frequently  sociological  commentary, 
often  droll,  but  not  what  anyone 
could  reasonably  call  formally  or 
stylistically  experimental.  The  nov- 
els tended  to  be  “fix-ups”  of  stories 
and  novelettes  first  published  in 
magazines,  and  pretty  much  the 
same  sort  of  thing. 

Which  is  to  say  that  in  this  incar- 
nation, Damon  Knight  was  an  exem- 
plar of  the  sort  of  writer  of  down-the- 
middle  science  fiction  elegized  at  the 
begiiming  of  this  essay.  Less  produc- 
tive than  many,  more  sophisticated 
than  most,  a more  polished  literary 
craftsman,  but  still  a teller  of  more 
or  less  conventional  science  fictional 
tales  framed  in  more  or  less  conven- 
tional forms  and  told  in  well-written 
but  basically  transparent  prose. 

Then  Knight  went  into  a long  fal- 
low period  as  a writer  of  fiction,  part- 
ly writer’s  block,  perhaps,  partly  con- 
centration on  his  other  careers  as 
influential  editor,  critic,  and  teacher. 

And  partly  a long,  long  pupation. 

For  in  retrospect,  with  the  publica- 
tion of  two  new  novels  in  the  1990s, 
that  seems  to  have  been  what  must 
have  been  going  on,  for  with  Why  Do 
Birds  and  Humpty  Dumpty,  Damon 


On  Books;  The  Edge  of  the  Envelope 


137 


June  1998 


Knight,  in  his  sixth  decade  as  a sci- 
ence fiction  writer,  has  metamor- 
phosed into  quite  a different  species 
of  literary  artist. 

To  say  that  Why  Do  Birds  is  in 
some  respects  a conventional  end  of 
the  world  novel  would  he  true,  to  say 
that  in  some  respects  it  is  another  of 
Knight’s  mordant  deconstructions  of 
human  assholery  would  also  he  true, 
hut  to  say  that  it  is  a conventional 
novel  with  a conventional  plot  or  a 
conventional  denouement  certainly 
would  not  be. 

As  I said  in  my  review.  Why  Do 
Birds  made  me  feel  weirder  for  hav- 
ing read  it.  There’s  something  reaUy 
twisted  about  this  novel,  and  dehber- 
ately  so,  as  exemplified  by  the  title, 
which  seems  to  have  no  external  or 
internal  referent. 

On  the  phenomenological  surface, 
it’s  the  story  of  one  Ed  Stone,  alien 
abductee,  or  so  he  claims,  whose  mis- 
sion it  is  to  persuade  the  world  to 
stack  its  entire  population  in  sus- 
pended animation  within  a giant 
cube  so  that  the  aliens  can  take  them 
safely  away  to  some  non-specific  par- 
adise when  the  Earth  is  destroyed  by 
some  non-specific  disaster.  He  suc- 
ceeds. People  file  into  the  cube  in  an 
orderly  manner.  After  which,  the 
Earth  is  destroyed  and  the  aliens, 
who  never  appear  on  stage,  whisk 
the  cube  away  to  wherever.  Maybe. 

Say  what? 

Indeed. 

Stone  succeeds  because  the  aliens 
have  gifted  him  with  the  power  of  to- 
tal believabihty.  The  world  proceeds 
to  shut  itself  down  and  stack  its  pop- 
ulation like  cordwood  in  a logical 
manner  and  the  bulk  of  the  novel 
consists  of  a neo-Campbellian  de- 
scription of  the  logistical  problems  of 
this  quixotic  feat  and  how  they  are 
overcome. 

This  is  not  a farce.  This  is  told 
with  a more  or  less  straight  face.  The 
effect  is  deeply  disturbing,  all  the 
more  so  because  it  is  achieved  with 


such  subtlety  that  one  never  quite 
knows  exactly  the  nature  of  the  ef- 
fect Knight  is  after  or  quite  how  he 
achieves  it. 

But  achieve  it  he  does. 

Worse  or  better  still,  Knight  brings 
the  whole  thing  to  a denouement 
that  is  somehow  formally  and  the- 
matically satisfying,  without  reveal- 
ing his  aliens,  and  without  even  re- 
vealing what  is  really  going  to 
happen  to  all  those  biUions  of  people 
in  suspended  animation.  Or  for  that 
matter,  making  any  sense  of  his  title. 

But  Why  Do  Birds  works  an5nvay. 

And  it’s  pretty  damn  impossible  to 
explain  exactly  why. 

Nor,  apparently,  was  Why  Do 
Birds  a one-off,  for  Humpty  Dumpty 
follows  much  the  same  vector  deeper 
and  deeper  into  surrealism. 

The  full  title  is: 

Humpty  Dumpty 
An  Oval 

Whatever  that  is  supposed  to 
mean — except  of  course,  that  Hump- 
ty Dumpty,  being  an  egg,  had  to 
have  been  an  oval,  and  the  broken 
egg  alluded  to  thereby  is  the  reality 
of  one  Wellington  Stout,  fractured 
somehow  by  a non-fatal(?)  bullet  to 
the  head  in  a MUan  restaurant,  and 
king’s  horses  and  king’s  men  to  the 
contrary,  never  put  back  together 
again  in  conventional  story  or  phe- 
nomenological terms. 

Nor  is  it  remotely  possible  to  de- 
scribe the  linear  skein  of  events  in 
Humpty  Dumpty  in  such  a manner. 
Stout  is  sucked  down,  down,  down, 
into  a whirlpool  of  imagistic  realities, 
level  after  level  inside  each  other,  in- 
terpenetrating, melding  into  each 
other — aliens,  rabbit  holes,  venues 
from  his  past,  real  and  imagined, 
you  name  it,  or  try  to. 

Confusing?  Elusive  of  meaning? 
On  the  edge  of  literary  hebephrenia? 

You  bet! 

And  yet,  like  Why  Do  Birds,  or 
even  more  so,  somehow  it  works. 

It  works  in  part  because  Knight 

Norman  Spinrad 


138 


Asimov's 


and  Stout  are  pursuing  real  emotion- 
al vectors  through  this  surrealistic 
bouillabaisse,  vectors  that  we  can 
understand  on  an  emotional  level  if 
not  a reahty  level,  and  so  we  can  em- 
pathize with  Stout  even  when  we, 
and  more  often  than  not  he,  don’t  re- 
ally know  what’s  going  on  or  why, 
where  we  are,  or  if  we  are  really  any- 
where. 

And  it  works  because  at  some 
point  hard  to  define,  the  whirlpool  of 
realities  sucking  Stout  down,  down, 
down,  would  seem  to  reverse  at  least 
on  some  elusive  moral  and  spiritual 
level,  and  there  is  the  sense  of  Stout 
rising  up  through  them  instead,  to  a 
truly  poignant,  tragic  yet  heroic 
apotheosis  that  we  more  or  less  un- 
derstand, vitiated  a bit  perhaps  by 
Knight’s  injecting  a bit  of  unconvinc- 
ing transcendentalism  at  the  very 
end  as  if  slightly  reluctant  to  have 
his  readers  bite  down  fully  on  his  bit- 
ter existential  bullet. 

Great  reams  of  this  sort  of  stuff 
have  been  written  by  amateurs, 
poseurs,  and  otherwise  successful  ht- 
erary  artists  under  the  influence  of 
drugs,  drink,  excessive  egoboo,  or  an 
exaggerated  appreciation  for  the 
wonderfulness  of  their  own  being, 
and  it  easily  enough  degenerates  into 
self-indulgent  pseudo-Freudian  form- 
less bullshit  and  often  enough  has. 

But  Damon  Knight  is  something 
else  again.  Not  only  does  he  enter 
these  waters  with  a half-century  of 
writing  excellent  transparent  prose 
in  the  service  of  the  mimetic  tradi- 
tion of  down-the-middle  science  fic- 
tion under  his  belt,  he  does  so  as 
both  the  most  formidable  technical 
critic  that  tradition  has  produced 
and  an  experienced  teacher  of  not  so 
much  the  art  as  the  craft  of  writing 
such  fiction. 

Knight  succeeds  with  this  sudden 
veer  into  surrealism  at  such  a ma- 
ture stage  in  his  career  precisely  be- 
cause he  has  made  the  move  at  such 
an  advanced  stage,  because  it  is  such 


a drastic  evolution  away  from  what 
he  has  done  before,  because  what  he 
has  done  and  been  before  has  paved 
the  way  for  such  a transformation. 

For  a half-century,  Knight  worked 
in  the  tradition  of  down-the-middle 
science  fiction  as  critic  and  writer. 
For  half  a century,  he  championed 
careful  craftsmanship  in  the  writing 
of  such  stuff  and  hard-nosed  and 
seamless  logic  in  its  conceptualiza- 
tion. For  almost  half  a century,  as  a 
writer  of  it,  he  practiced  what  he 
preached. 

And  then,  in  the  1960s,  at  the  Mil- 
ford Conferences,  in  his  editorship  of 
the  Orbit  series,  to  an  extent  in  the 
Clarion  Workshops,  he  came  in  con- 
tact with,  and  even  to  some  extent 
began  to  champion  as  an  editor,  new 
generations  of  speculative  writers, 
with  new  theories  of  what  specula- 
tive fiction  could  be  and  how  it  might 
be  written — stylistic  experimenters, 
formal  innovators,  hterary  spelunk- 
ers  of  inner  space. 

It’s  as  if  a meticulous  master  of 
Dutch  realist  painting,  say,  were 
brought  forward  by  a time  machine 
to  confront  the  Cubists  and  Dadaists. 
He  might  hang  around  them  for  a 
while,  maybe  a long  while,  sussing  it 
aU  out,  absorbing  the  changes  before 
trying  his  hand  at  it  himself. 

And  then,  would  he  not  apply  the 
craft  and  skiU  and  tricks  of  the  trade 
that  he  had  learned  in  his  previous 
incarnation  as  a mimetic  realist  to 
the  new  material? 

There  are  those  who  would  say 
that  that  is  something  hke  the  evolu- 
tion of  Pablo  Picasso.  And  certainly 
that  of  Salvador  Dali. 

And  that  of  Surrealism  itself,  on 
its  higher  and  more  successful  levels. 

Visual  or  hterary. 

You  can’t  teach  an  old  dog  new 
tricks? 

Maybe,  maybe  not. 

But  Damon  Knight  has  certainly 
proven  that  given  time,  and  due  re- 
flection, and  experience  as  a critic 


On  Books:  The  Edge  of  the  Envelope 


139 


June  1998 


and  teacher,  and  a long  experience  of 
careful  craftsmanship,  and  an  open 
mind,  and  exposure  to  new  forms  of 
material,  an  old  dog  can  certainly 
teach  himself  hov/  to  use  his  old 
tricks  to  radically  new  creative  ends. 

And  perform  them  with  a balance 
and  skill  those  whippersnappers  can 
only  envy  if  they  are  foolish  and  learn 
hum  if  they  wish  to  become  wise. 

Yes,  a half  century  of  science  fic- 
tion’s literary  history  can  be  read  in 
the  career  of  Damon  Knight.  Its  be- 
ginnings as  a pulp  magazine  pop- 
cult.  Its  self-shaping  via  fanzines 
and  conventions  and  then  its  own  se- 
rious critical  literature.  The  evolu- 
tion of  its  backbone  in  the  form  of 
sincere  serious  science  fiction  writ- 
ten in  accessible  transparent  prose. 
The  influences  of  the  self-conscious 
attempts  to  improve  the  literature 
and  craft  by  the  peer-group  Milford 
Conferences  of  the  1950s  and  1960s. 
The  attempts  of  established  writers  to 
teach  what  they  had  learned  to  new 
generations  in  the  ongoing  Clarion 


Workshops.  The  stylistic  and  formal 
and  contentwise  winds  of  change  of 
the  New  Wave  and  its  literary  suc- 
cessors. 

All  that  SF  has  been  and  may  yet 
become.  A long,  sometimes  silly, 
sometimes  grand,  alternate  literary 
tradition  that  has  struggled  up  out  of 
a sea  of  adolescent  pulp  to  evolve, 
panting  and  still  struggling  forward, 
toward  its  stUl  problematic  matiirity. 

AU  that  science  fiction  has  been. 

And  can  become. 

Or  not. 

All  that  is  now  in  danger  of  being 
lost. 

On  the  plaque  affixed  to  the  Voy- 
ager probe  that  has  left  the  solar  sys- 
tem for  parts  and  civilizations  un- 
known is  a greeting  and  a promise 
from  the  peoples  of  the  Earth  attrib- 
uted to  Carl  Sagan: 

“To  learn  if  we  are  fortunate,  to 
teach  if  we  are  called  upon  to  teach.” 

Damon  Knight  has  been  fortunate. 

And  so  have  we. 

He  has  done  both.  • 


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7-10— World  Horror  Con,  Box  61565,  Phoenix  AZ  85082.  (602)  941-3438.  Embassy  Suites  North.  Lumley,  Powers. 

15-17-Oasis,  tox  940^  Maitland  FL  32794.  (407)263-5822.  Radisson,  Orlando  FL  Larry  Niven,  Ben  Bova. 

15-17-ConPuit,  Box  11745,  Salt  Lake  City  UT  84147.  (801)  2734)443,  (801)  776-1064.  Airport  Hilton.  David  Brin. 
15-17— KeyCon,  Box  3178,  Winnipeg  MB  R3C  4E6.  (E-mail)  cdantSawneLcom.  Ramada  Marlboro^.  Rusch,  Freas. 
15-17— VCon,  4683  Arbutus  #316,  Vancouver  BC  V6J  4A3.  (604)  261-4895.  Surrey  Inn,  Surrey  BC.  D.  Gerrold. 
22-24-ConQuMt,  Box  36212,  Kansas  City  MO  64171.  (913)  7684)779.  Park  Place  Hotel.  Jeter,  Burdak,  G.  Button. 
22-24— MisCon,  Box  9363,  Missoula  MT  59807.  (406)  543-5058.  D.  Barr,  Ann  Peters,  H.  Alexander,  Steve  Jackson. 
22-24— AgamemCon,  24161-H  Hoilyoak,  Laguna  Hills  CA  92656.  (714)  643-8352.  Hilton,  Burbank  CA.  Babylon  5. 
22-25— MecSaWestCon,  200  E Thomas,  Lansing  M 48906.  (AOL)  mdiawstcon.  Advance  registration  only.  Media  fanzines. 
22-2S-WisCon,  Box  1624,  Madison  Wl  52701.(608)  233-8850.  Concourse  Hotel.  Four  days  of  feminism  and  SF. 


JUNE  1998 


5-7— Ad  Astra,  Box  7276,  Stn.  A,  Toronto  ON  M5W 1X9.  (E-mail)  redbeard@yoi1(u.ca.  Radisson  E.,  Don  Valley  ON. 
5-7— TachyCon,  Box  3382,  Winter  Park  FL  32790.  (407)  628-1454.  Adams  Mark,  Orlando  FL.  Doyle,  Byers,  Roen. 


AUGUST  1998 


5-9— BucCONeer,  Box  314,  Annapolis  Junction  MD  20701.  (410)  534-8136.  Baltimore  MD.  WorldCon.  $130  to  6/15. 


AUGUST  1999 


26-29— Conucopia,  Box  8442,  Van  Nuys  CA  91409.  Anaheim  CA.  Poumelle.  No.  American  SF  Con  (NASFtC).  $70. 


SEPTEMBER  1999 


2-6— AussieCon  3,  Box  266,  Prospect  Heights  IL  60070.  Melbourne  Australia.  Greg  Benford.  WoridCon.  US  $155. 


AUGUST  2000 


31-Sep.  4— ChiCon  2000,  Box  642057,  Chicago  IL  60664.  Bova,  Eggleton,  Baen,  Turtledove.  WoridCon.  $125. 


Finally — a "cure"  for  bad  breath! 


For  years,  the  cause  of  chronic  bad  breath  has  been 
misdiagnosed,  but  a dentist's  research  has  led  to 
TheraBreath™ , a dramatic  treatment  system  that 
works  naturally  and  effectively. 


These  days, people  spend  a great  deal  of 
time  on  their  health  and  fitness  in  order 
to  look  and  feel  their  best.  Unfor- 
tunately, many  people  around  the  world 
suffer  from  a condition  that  cannot  be  cured 
at  a health  club,  spa  or  even  a hospital: 
chronic  bad  breath  or  halitosis. 

The  only  solution  is  the  TheraBreath 
system.  Because  halitosis  originates  in  the 
mouth,  it  is  virtually  undetectable  by  your 
own  sense  of 
smell.  Without 
proper  treat- 
ment, chronic 
bad  breath  can 
lead  to  a loss  of 
confidence  and 
self-esteem,  and 
it  can  even  result 
in  depression. 

What's  needed 
is  a quick  and 
effective  treat- 
ment that  works 
naturally  with 
no  side  effects. 

A scientific 
soiution.  Bad 
breath  does  not  originate  in  the  digestive  sys- 
tem, and  the  food  you  eat  has  no  direct  effect 
on  your  breath.  Certain  foods,  however,  con- 
tribute to  the  production  of  sulfurous  gases 
in  the  back  of  the  mouth.  Acids  in  coffee  and 
proteins  in  dairy  products  exacerbate  the 
problem.  Mints  and  mouthwashes  intended 
to  mask  or  prevent  bad  breath  actually  wors- 
en the  condition  because  sugar  and  alcohol 
dry  out  the  mouth.  The  only  effective  means 
of  eliminating  the  sulfur  gas  production  is  to 
introduce  oxygen  to  the  bacteria,  causing 
them  to  produce  tasteless,  odorless  sulfates. 
Effective,  safe  and  natural.  At  his 
California  Breath  Clinic,  Dr.  Katz  has  perfected 
a five-step  program  for  treating  halitosis.  By 
using  these  products  on  a regular  basis, 
chronic  halitosis  sufferers  can  end  their 
problem.  The  TheraBreath  system  eliminates 


the  problem 
of  bitter  or 
sour  taste  in 
the  mouth, 
improves  general  periodontal  health  and  will 
even  whiten  teeth.  Unlike  mouthwashes  that 
are  flavored  heavily  or  designed  to  taste  like 
medicine,  TheraBreath  has  a mild  spearmint 
flavor.  These  products  are  all-natural  and 
simply  introduce  a greater  amount  of  oxy- 
gen into  the 
mouth's 
chemistry. 
Try  it  risk- 
free.  The 
TheraBreath 
System  is  an 
effective,  safe 
and  easy-to- 
use  solution 
to  a troubling 
problem,  but 
don't  just  take 
our  word  for 
it.  Try  this 
product  for 
yourself  with 
our  risk-free 
home  trial.  If  you  are  not  fully  satisfied,  just 
return  it  within  30  days  for  a full  refund. 


Oxyd-Vlir“  (concentrated  pH-balanced  CIO2), 
the  active  ingredient  in  TheraBreath,  transforms 
these  odor-causing  suifides  to  suifates,  which 
have  no  taste  or  odor. 


TheraBreath™ S39.95  ses&H 

Please  mention  promotional  code  2805-12962. 
For  fastest  service,  call  toll-free  24  hours  a day 

800-992-2966 

To  order  by  mail,  send  check  or  money  order  for  the  total  amount 
including  S&H.  To  charge  it  to  your  credit  card,  enclose  your  ac- 
count number  and  expiration  date. 

Virginia  residents  only — please  include  4.5%  sales  tax. 


connt:rad 

inciu5t:ries 

2820  Waterford  Lake  Dr.,  Suite  102 
Midlothian.  Virginia  23113 


TECHNOLOGY  UPDATE 


One  scientists  vision 
revolutionizes  the  hearing 
industry,  benefiting 
millions  of  people. . . 


Crystal  Ear®  uses  sophisticated  electronics  to  provide  affordable, 
cosmetically-pleasing  and  easy-to-use  hearing  amplification. 


One  day  a friend  asked  my  wife  Jill  if 
1 had  a hearing  aid.  "He  certainly 
does,"  replied  Jill,  "Me!"  After  hear- 
ing about  a remarkable  new  product,  Jill 
finally  got  up  the  nerve  to  ask  me  if  I'd  ever 
thought  about  getting  a hearing  aid.  "No 
way,"  1 said.  "It  would  make  me  look  20  years 
older  and  cost  a fortune."  "No,  no," 
she  replied.  "This  is 
entirely  different.  It's  not 
a hearing  aid  ...  it's 
Crystal  Ear!" 

No  one  will  know. 

Jill  was  right.  Crystal  Ear 
is  different — not  the 
bulky,  old-styled  body- 
worn  or  over-the-ear 
aid,  but  an  advanced 
personal  sound  system 
so  small  it's  like  contacts 
for  your  ears.  You  will 
hear  sounds  your  ears 
have  been  missing  for 
years.  Crystal  Ear  will 
make  speech  louder,  and 
the  sound  is  pure  and 
natural. 


DON'T  TAKE  OUR 
WORD  FOR  IT... 

"My  father 
spent  over -$5000 
on  another 
brand.  I showed 
him  my  Crystal 
Ear,  he  tried  it, 
and  he  decided 
it  worked  better 
than  his  brand, 
even  though  it 
was  a... fraction 
of  the  costl" 

— A satisfied 
Crystal  Ear  user 


Thanks  to  Crystal  Ear,  the  "sound  solution" 
is  now  affordable  and  convenient.  Almost 
90%  of  people  with  mild  hearing  loss,  and 
millions  more  with  just  a little  hearing 
dropoff,  can  be  dramatically  helped  with 
Crystal  Ear.  Plus,  its  superior  design  is  ener- 
gy-efficient, so  batteries  can  last  months,  not 
just  weeks. 

You’ll  feel  years  younger!  Crystal  Ear 
arrives  ready  to  use,  complete  with  batteries, 
two  different  fitting  sleeves,  a cleaning  brush 
and  even  a carrying  case.  It  is  made  in  the 
USA,  using  state-of-the-art  micro-manufac- 
turing techniques  that  cut  costs  dramatically — 
savings  that  we  can  pass  on  to  you. 

Don’t  be  fooled  by  high  prices.  No  hear- 
ing device,  no  matter  how  expensive,  can 
eliminate  background  noise,  despite  claims 
by  the  manufacturers.  Crystal  Ear  does  not 
promise  miracles — just  an  affordable,  sound 
solution  to  many  common  hearing  problems. 

Risk-free.  Try  Crystal  Ear  and  hear  what 
you've  been  missing.  It  comes  with  a 90-day 
manufacturer's  limited  warranty  as  well  as 
our  risk-free  home  trial.  If  you're  not  satis- 
fied, return  it  within  30  days  for  a full  refund. 


It  is  smaller  than  the  tip  of  my  little  finger 
and  it's  almost  invisible  when  worn.  Put  it  in 
your  ear  and  its  ready-to-wear  mold  fits  com- 
fortably. Since  it's  not  too  loud  or  too  tight, 
you  may  even  forget  that  you're  wearing  it! 
A fraction  of  the  price.  Hearing  loss  is 
the  world's  number-one  health  problem,  but 
in  most  cases  it  goes  completely  untreated. 
For  many  millions  of  people,  hearing  devices 
are  way  too  expensive,  and  the  retail  middle- 
men want  to  keep  it  that  way.  What's  more, 
treating  hearing  loss  the  old  retail  way  can 
involve  numerous  office  visits,  expensive 
testing  and  adjustments  to  fit  your  ear. 


Crystal  Ear®: 

Three  credit-card  payments  of  $99.95  $19  S&H 

If  not  purchasing  a pair,  please  specify  right  or  left  ear. 

Please  mention  promotional  code  3464-12960. 

For  fastest  service,  call  toll-free  24  hours  a day 

800-992-2966 


camtrad 

induBtries 

2820  Waterford  Lake  Dr.,  Suite  102 
Midlothian.  Virginia  23113 


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